Which made the rich financier trust his powers
For such a function in such frightful times,
When all the waves were roaring, and o'erleaping
Their bounds. Full little of the history

Of th'human heart knew he; or of the wheels
By which the politics of states are mov'd ;—
A man of abstract notions, full of saws,
And figures to direct the counting house
By rule and measure, and methodical
Arrangement. O'twas always "the account-
Th'account deliver'd!" and the task was done
In his conception, and the storm must cease,
And waters must subside, and the fond dove
Come forth in safety, and the olive pluck!
That such a simple creature should
suppose
He held the wand of wisdom, would be strange,
Did we not see that folly rules the world!

But O how bitter must have been the workings Of disappointed hope and foil'd ambition,

When in this solitude, which lonely breezes
Moaning along the lake made lonelier,

Or where the tempest, nurs'd among the gorges

Of the gigantic snow-clad ridgy mountains,

Made to the heart diseas'd and vex'd more gloomy,

The vain proud ostentatious fallen man

Reflected on the issues of his toils,

His speculations, his miscarriages!

"O do not hold" as on the banks he roam'd,

Or from his window saw the morning dawn

Glance on Mont-Blanc's cloud-cover'd top, "O do not

"Hold such a melancholy tone! I am not "Nerv'd for the voices of the elements!"The voice of man in social life, the music "Of streets, saloons, conclaves, and palaces, "Befits my sicken'd soul, to give it comfort; "Poets may talk of mountains, lakes, and torrents, "And woods and hills and vallies! I believe, "It is but affectation! Man for man "In social life was form'd:-there is no other "Delight in our existence. Nature torn "By storms, or billows, or the threatening burst "Of fire destructive darting thro the skies, "Why should it be delightful to refinement. "In human habits? Rather let the savage "Rejoice in that which not the polish'd arts "Of social man have into being brought! "If my ambition's projects had succeeded, "The music of saloons, the bending knee, "The reverential tone of deep applause, "Had met me morn and night; and had shut out "The roar of elements, and the depressing "Shadows of savage nature! I am now "A poor deserted store-diminish'd man,

"Whom none regard; on whom a tribe ferocious "Full often thirst to dip their hands in blood: "But still I doubt not, 'tis a foolish world, "Not I, have been in error!-I will write! "My pen is still my pleasure-and will shew "By figures, and by mathematical

"Proof, that I ever was myself in the right,

"And all the world was wrong! For who is ignorant, "There is no certainty except in figures!

"All else is vague conjecture, and vile, shadowy "Fancy, of vapours and inanity

"Bred, and in useless smoke mounts and expires.'

"

END OF BOOK III.

THE

LAKE OF GENEVA.

BOOK IV.

WHEN the world sleeps, then best my task I ply;-
Then from the world's obtrusions I repose

Secure; and as a breath, a frown, a word,
Can discompose me, the security
Nurses the workings of my morbid spirit!

There are who censure such infirmities,

As but the fancies of vile whim and humour:
But they are men, who draw their judgments from
The hardness of their own froze hearts and heads.

He, to whom fate the labour has assign'd
The mental loom to work, must necessarily
Have nerves and feelings finer than the vulgar;
And be more quickly sensible to wrong,
Insult, and taunt, or e'en the laugh of eye,
The scorn disguis'd, the hidden disapproval,
The treachery that lurks within the heart
Of rivalry or envy. But the outward
Evils of life, that by the glare of day

N

Assault us, when contending man is busy

Upon the stage, in mischief ever rife,

These interrupt incessantly our progress

Under the broad sun's beams: then thee, O Night,

I hail, and in thy silence and repose

My web goes on in regular advance.

To see the task grow under us, and, night
By night, its palpable increase exhibit,
Sustains our energies, and nurses hope.

It is gradation, which in life supports
The waste of labour. He, who finds the days
Of his strait-bound existence waste away,
Yet nothing done, and no progression made,
Sickens, and loses all the moving force
That carries on the fruitful labourer.
With nothing done, and nothing we can do,
Ennui consumes us; and when of to-morrow
Our prospect only is the self-same thing,
Th'internal organs almost cease to work;
There is no breath of hope to drive them on!
The idle are of men the most unhappy :
Peril, and toil extreme, and injury,
And ceaseless crosses; insult, treachery,
Disease, and all the agonies of mind

And body, more enjoyment know by fitful
Contrasts, than vapoury stagnant idleness:
And he, who has not tried his powers, can never
Guess the extent of their capacity.

Step after step, year after year, they often
Expand, and see the thickest clouds before them