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The true friend's heart as yonder lake is calm;
Pure as yon snows, but firm as mountain rocks: His voice is as the glowing morn, a balm
To the hurt mind that's felt the world's rough shocks. His looks as cheerful as the sun's bright locks. This high-soul'd being fearlessly will shield
A falling brother from the scorner's mocks.
Oh! when the book of life shall be unseal'd
Evils there are, but many self-created
In this our busy world; why should we grieve
To be alone; why should we learn to weave
Ourselves, not others; still where'er thou art,
'Mid cities, or near cottages, relieve
The poor man's wants, thou wilt perform thy part
Well on the stage of life, and blunt e'en envy's dart!
Adieu, sweet country; of Helvetia's wrongs,
Even in my childhood, have I thought, and wept
Treading in innocent blood where'er he stept
Hell's horrid offspring-Anarchy his name:
Had France no Washingtons, Timoleons then
To point the way to Virtue's temple? read
And Gallia's woes will make thy bosom bleed.
Her friends were foes, noue prized the golden mean;
Each wild lawgiver had his separate creed;
All spoke in vain, the soldier rush'd between,
Th' imperial consul's pomp then closed th' eventful scene.
Madame de Stael.
All things have their alloy; go southwards on,
A waste of sweets; the sun ne'er shone upon
Her very winter's softer than our May;
Great Loyola! how well thy sons succeed,
Poor wretch, to beg, to flatter, stab, or steal;
He loves; alas, to whom shall we appeal;
Oh! when will monarchs learn to prize the general weal?
Here is Religion rob'd in rich attire,
To please the eye, not meliorate the heart; Her pageantries, her glittering shrines, inspire
Devotion, in which morals have no part.
Does God delight in works of human mart? He heedeth not the labour of man's hands;
He loves a soul devoid of guile and art; Fear him, and love him, honour his commands, But his all-perfect state no earthly pomp demands !
Quick are the Italian's feelings, prompt to wrong,
The powers of the mind cannot be rude.
What then doth cause revenge, and acts of blood?
The vivid spirit that delights the muse,
Not the less willing, when she's fiercely woo'd;
Those impulses, how dangerous their abuse,
Which when directed well heroic acts produce:
'Twas here the light of science first broke forth
Amid the Gothic gloom of former ages;
Strange change, that light's diffused throughout the earth
Yet Barbarism's evil genius rages
E'en in a country long since famed for sages.
Invasions, civil wars, the jealous strife
Of princes, sully here th' historian's pages.
Awake, Italia's sons, awake to life;
Throw off your foreign yoke, but scorn the inglorious knife.
Where Mind to marble gives a living grace,
Where Music's inspiration's fully felt:
Where Poetry all passions doth embrace
In language form'd to rouse the soul, or melt.
Be what ye were in ages past again,
Brave Milanese '; the spoilers must re-seek their den.