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Chide Harold's Pilgrimage.


. 1.
In "pride of placehere last the eagle flen.

Stanza xviii. line 5. .- Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of Might.---see Macbeth, &c.

“ An Eagle towering in his pride of place
“ Was by a mousing Owl lawked at and killed."


Such as Harmodius drew on Athen's tyrant lord.

Stanza Xx. line 9. See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton.---The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, by Mr. Denman.

“ With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c.

And all went merry as a marriage-bell.

Stanza xxi. line 8. On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball was given at Brussels.

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings, in each clansman's ears.

Stanza xxvi. line 9. Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the “gentle Lochiel" of the “forty-five."

. CI. All things are here of him ; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,

But light leaves, young as joy, stand where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude,


A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words,
And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings

The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.

CII. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore; And make his heart a spirit; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more, For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 'tis his nature to advance or die; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,
Peoplipg it with affections; but he found
It was the scene which passion must allot
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound,
And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone,
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,

And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne.

Lausanne ! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes (23)
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name;
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,
A path to perpetuity of fame:
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim,
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while
On man and man's research could deign do more than

The one was fire and fickleness, a child,
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind,
A wit as various-gay, grave, sage, or wild,
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined;
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents : But his own
Breathed most in ridicule,—which, as the wind,

Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.



All things are here of him ; fr
Which are his shade on high
Of torrents, where he listeneth
Which slope his green path do
Where the bow'd waters meer
Kissing his feet with murmurs
The covert of old trees, with to

But light leaves, young as joya
Offering to him, and his, a poprilicom

A populous solitude of bees and
And fairy-form'd and
Who worship him with notes me
And innocently open their
Fearless and full of life:
And fall of lofty fount
Of stirring branches

The swiftest thoug!
Mingling, and made

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Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,

ull flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,

to the last halo of the chiefs and sages, Tamtho glorify thy consecrated pages; s hou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,

the fount at which the panting mind assuages etter thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, raws from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

ang us far I have proceeded in a theme

enew'd with no kind auspices :-to feel
e are not what we have been, and to deem
are not what we should be,—and to steel
heart against itself; and to conceal,

proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,
n or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal,-
h is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
in task of soul :--No matter,-it is taught.


for these words, thus woven into song,
nay be that they are a harmless wile,--
he colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
hich I would seize, in passing to beguile

st, or that of others, for a while.

the thirst of youth,—but I am not
ing as to regard men's frown or smile,
, or guerdon of a glorious lot;
nd stand alone,-remember'd or forgot,

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