Then thou, Newcastle, in thy youth uprear'd To all that wealth, and rank, and courts, and arts, And all that peace, by its most splendid rays Of chivalrous adornment, and the glories Of all the Muses, could create, didst buckle Thy armour on for rude spear-cover'd camps, And fields of desperate onset; and didst bear The labour and the peril with the roughest!

Last came the fated fight of Marston Moor, Where thy bold troops thou to the battle ledst, And gallantly and desperately struggledst! But all was vain; and when the day beheld All lost, and thou wert with most base neglect, Or ignorance, or envy foul, betray'd,— In foreign realms an exile many a year Of pressing dark adversity and straits Of want, and perils, and heart-breaking crosses, Didst thou in patience and with cheerfulness Endure, and saw'dst at last thy Prince restor'd; And still had many a year of peace to come Within thy native land, and midst of rank, Wealth, honours, arts, tranquillity of mind, Beheldst thy sun go down, and sink at last A mild octogenarian to the grave!

But, O my flighty Muse, how far hast thou Wander'd from thy elected theme! Resume Thy purpose; backward dart thy wings again; For Muses ever have ubiquity;

Perch for a moment on proud Dover's heights, Then from the white cliffs take thine airy way

Across old Ocean's mighty billows, dashing
Their thundring noises thro the straits, that separate
Albion from its defying rival Gaul!

Leagues after leagues, (the grand metropolis

Of France, the boast of near two thousand years,
Escaping on thy right,) to Jura's summits,-
Cities and towns and hamlets left unnotic'd,
Beyond the counter's skill to numerate,

Thou reachest,--and then down again once more
Alightest on thy purple Lake, all spangling
With young Aurora's beams! and thus once more

Within Geneva's beauteous circuit restest!

END OF BOOK I.

THE

LAKE OF GENEVA.

BOOK II.

THERE are who think that under all the forms
Of nature's scenery the mind of man
Is still the same; that mountain, lake, and hill,
And valley, and deep woods, and ocean broad,
No more affect it; and give force no more
And happiness, than the dull vapoury plain,
Ever the same, on which the beams of Heaven
Throw no variety of shapes and colours.
Not so wise theory, not so experience
Instructs us we are children of the lights
Of the blue sky, and as the spirits move,
And the veins play, the intellect its hues,
And motions takes! Thus poets on thy lake,
O Leman, ought to live:-but yet 'tis rare!
Rousseau, though not in metre, was a poet
In all the essences of his high genius!-

E