Consign-e'en thou, detested despot, were
Chief of the Line!-For from thee came a princess
Splendid, as most that on the' historic page
Have their reigns blazon'd! Yes, from Coppet's lords
Part of thy blood came in a gallant stream!
O alter'd times! O good and evil mix'd,
That changes have effected! O how different
Was the wild splendor of thy board, De Stael,
When in October's moody evenings, as
The sobbing breeze drove the leaves on the Lake,
And stripp'd the groves of their umbrageous honours,
The gorgeous blaze of lamps the guests attracted,
Of wit and genius, to thy table, spread
With modern luxuries! Then converse bright
Eclips'd the show of the Financier's wealth.-
And here again to thy fond name, O Byron,
I must return! I see thee listening now
To the conflict where at every dart flash forth
Splendors thou canst not reach; and then half angry,
Or envious, half delighted, thou dost shrink
Moody into thyself, and as the blast
By fits comes shrieking, or in deep hoarse roar
Over the beating waters, of thy boat
Think'st, and half risest to enjoy the battle
Of more congenial elements without;—
But then again to thy luxurious seat
Thyself thou reconcilest, and wouldst yet
Hope not eclips'd and vanquish'd to depart!
O pride intolerable, yet with flashes.
Of generous submission and humility,
And admiration of corrival powers,
When not insulted, and the victory
Borne with meek placidness, devoid of vain
Arrogant triumph. But thy mind remains
E'en now but half develop'd, firey Bard!
Perchance a poet only well can write
A poet's life, and such the fate which thee,
O Bard of Newsted, has awaited Moore,
England's Anacreon, has fulfill'd the task;
But now and then it may be thought the strain
Was not congenial;—the profundity
Of the great poet's gloom was of the heart;
His frolic levities were but assum'd!
And sometines his companions seem'd th'effect
Of chance more than of choice. Thus he who perish'd Upon the shores of Lirici so fatally,
Whelm'd in the waves of the tempesturous Ocean-
Himself also a bard,—but yet a bard
Of mingled stars and clouds!-he touch'd the lyre
Sometimes in happier hour with a light hand,
That drew forth tones most exquisitely sweet;
But then again he labour'd in confusion
Dark, enigmatic, falsely gorgeous, struggling
To grasp at monstrous unmatur'd conceptions,
Unmanag'd, and unmanagable, mystic,
Dangerous, sceptical, and fanciful.
Beneath the roof that Diodati's name
Has consecrated to the Muses, he,
The victim of the stormy billows, pass'd
The autumn, to the noble poet big
With such heart-swelling sorrows!-He whose tales
Of Monks profane, and of hobhoblins dire,
Won a false sensual taste, and a foul fame
Of spurious wit,—a guest was also there;
And she the genius deep of Frankenstein,
And others known perchance, or thirstily
Aspiring to be known,--a motley crew;-
Not one congenial with his noble host!
Above thy banks, O Leman, to a point
Where thy waves gather, at its western bound,
And, issuing in a purple torrent, force
Their passage thro the strait, on whose steep banks Stands thy fam'd city once the capital
Of the Burgundian realm—now numerous
On thy o'ershadowing heights the fair campaignes
Glitter. Here d'Aubigné the fair abode
Of his last days, the wreck of a long life
Of busy conflicts and adventures bold,
Fix'd; while his plume as ready as his sword
Told the long tale of many a feat of gallantry,
And many a court intrigue, and many a danger,
In the fierce wars of bigot zeal, which stain'd
The bloody struggles for a pure religion.
O Bourbon, in whose generous character,
The wit, the hero, the sagacious wordling,
The chivalrous adventurer, the lover,
The friend, th'abandon'd to luxurious pleasure,
A many-colour'd web of brilliant hues
Is woven, and whose threads of gloomier tint
Were cut at last too short by the dire dagger
Of an insane assassin, well has d'Aubigné
Recorded the memorials, that still prove
The truth of thy well-merited renown!
Here in his old age were the nuptials gaily
A second time perform'd, and proud Geneva
Received him to the bosom of a House,
It cherished much-from Lucca's warmer skies Transplanted, Burlamachi's race, long flourishing--Extinct at last. But from his veins descended
Of his first issue one, who to the heir
Of his great kingly friend, and to the court
Of brilliant and ambitious France, nor less
To Europe's wide-spread nations, was a star
Of female brilliance, that eclips'd the lights
Of other deep intriguers! ΜΑΙΝΤΕΝΟΝ,
Who does not know thy name, while yet thy character
Remains an half enigma, which Saint-Simon's
Piercing, acute, sincere, but somewhat tedious
Pen, has not yet entirely clear'd from doubt?
Here ROHAN's Duke, who fought so long with bravery
The Protestant cause against the force of France,
The remnant of his days, to seek for calm,
And nature's tranquil but majestic scenes,
Appointed, and in thy cathedral walls
His relics, and the funeral memorial,
Defil'd in latter years by hands profane
Of revolutionary rabbles, still
Beneath thy Gothic roofs, displays its broken
Sculpture but better were the history
Of his field-active days, for prose than verse;
And well has he himself the story given.
Here BONNET on low Genthod's jutting point
In philosophic studies, natural science,
And expositions of the Power Divine,
His long life of incessant study pass'd.
If reader thou art curious, thou mayst read
In the rich pages of historic Müller
The record of his calm yet busy days,
And virtuous simple life. Here MALLET vers'd
In antiquarian lore, and philosophic
Annals of Europe's politics, his labours
Oft gather'd from the sources far remote
Of other realms, beneath more northern skies
Sometimes applied; tho from his native soil
Distant, too much of his researchful life
Was spent but not on frozen themes, or rude;
For curious are the sources he evolv'd
Of the bold Runic Muse; and much our Gray,
And much our Percy, of old poetry,
The elegant and learned chronicler,
Drew cups of inspiration from the fount!
But richly-stor'd, and eloquently-gifted,
Sismondi has a brief memorial given
Of the learn'd annalist; and now his fame
Rests undisturb'd. Here STANHOPE from the councils
Of Albion's ermin'd robes retir'd to nurse
His scientific passions: here MAHON
In his sire's dry philosophy imbued,
Yet with the passion of an ardent mind,
Drank in republican notions from his cradle,
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