72 THE PAST IS POETRY. 



at variance with its precepts. He once asserted, at Brookes's, in the 

 presence of Fox it was in the year 1779, 1 think that there was no 

 salvation for Great Britain but in the gentle remedy of cutting off 

 the heads of six of the then ministry, and having them laid on the 

 table of the House of Commons ! Whatever were the cause, six 

 weeks subsequently he accepted office, and assured himself a pension 

 from the same ministry ! 



Voltaire, Rousseau, Gibbon, De Stae'l all have celebrated the 

 beauties of the Leman. Well ! take the Vaudois cotter, even of this 

 our day ; regard the tone and temper of his career ; and view the 

 " fair humanities'* of his humble home : the picture is neither rare 

 nor distant. Then turn to the palace of the philosopher of Ferney ; 

 and " the malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness" of its once 

 possessor ; the heart-corroding jealousies, the torturing susceptibility, 

 and domestic degradation of Rousseau; the veering opinions of 

 Gibbon, and his habitual discontent ; the ever-unsatisfied vanity of 

 Madame de Stae'l, demanding, in vain, the unqualified admiration of 

 a world, more frequently tempted to smile than to applaud. Cast up 

 the account of good and ill on either side, and say where lies the 

 balance of life's better and more enduring enjoyments ? 



THE PAST IS POETRY. 



THE Past is Poetry ! the rudest sound 

 That ever broke on Echo's sleepless ear 

 Will fade to far-off harmony, before 

 It altogether die. The ambient air, 

 That near us undulates all unperceived, 

 When far away assumes the hue of heaven, 

 And to a dome of azure marble grows, 

 Looking as it could never know decay. 

 The Past is Poetry! the deeds, the days, 

 The feelings, thoughts, and phantasies of Eld, 

 Sown thickly o'er the memory, spring up " 

 As odorous flowers to frame a wreath of song ; 

 Yea more ! for some there be of nature blest, 

 Whose rich balsamic virtue ministers, 

 Nor vainly, "ministers to minds diseased." 

 Hence the remembrance of an action kind, 

 Done in our boyhood, like the prayer of morn, 

 Sustains and soothes us through Life's weary day ! 

 And therefore did the ancient Poet feign 

 Mnemosyne the mother of each Muse. 



