70 ~ the solitudes. Scpi, 1%. 
der hearts. Not her who sighed formerly the weak com- } 
plaints of Ovid, and the soft griefs of Tibullus, but the 
who, fuli of sublime gravity, animated the immortal nights 
of the Britifh bard. 
Come O muse! animate mealsoin my turn. But alas! 
you fly from me. - - - + Agreeable error! return. 
- - - I stili find myself alone in the midst of the 
gloomy plains.—The muse has disappeared. But would 
fhe have consoled me !—me whom wisdom herself cannot 
‘console. 
Wisdom! earthly wisdom, what art thou? An illusi- 
on of a few instants: a pompous dream where the 
ideal Irus is seated on the throne of kings; but 
when Aurora, from the bosom of the blufhing clouds 
descends upon the smiling earth—whén the darknefs is dis- 
pelled,the dream flies away and leaves only a beggar in 
place of a king; in the place of a sage, nothing but a 
fool. 
Like to those despicable warriors who before the battle 
insult the fugitives, and menace the enemy from afar ; 
wbut who, whien he is near, know only to tremble and to 
fly ; thou darest to brave the evils to come, and in thy 
pride to boast that thou wilt conquer grief. But alas! 
thou Wiest at the aspect of misfortunes present. The 
sage discovers then what he is - - - a man; that 
which he will be - - - - - vunanimated dust. 
Unanimated clay! . + . ; Andthou, O lovely Se- 
rena! art thou then no more than dust! . . » The 
tender tears of friendfhip will awaken thee no more! 
Thy sleep will endure till the sound of the'last trumpet 
fhall afsemble us again. ‘Thou sleepest* . . . No, 
thou dost not sleep. -Elevated above the luminous clouds, 
