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1.

DAY glimmered in the east, and the white Moon

Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky,

Yet visible, when on my way I went,

Thy gates, GENEVA, Swinging heavily,
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut;
As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,*
Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee
Inscribed to consecrate (such virtue dwells

In those small syllables) the narrow street,

His birth-place--when, but one short step too late,

* Rousseau.

B

He sate him down and wept-wept till the morning;

Then rose to go—a wanderer thro' the world.

'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it. Yet at a City-gate, from time to time,

Much might be learnt; and most of all at thine,
LONDON-thy hive the busiest, greatest, still
Attracting more and more. Let us stand by,
And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youth,
Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power,
A Chatterton-in thought admired, caressed,

And crowned like Petrarch in the Capitol;

Ere long to die—to fall by his own hand,

And fester with the vilest. Here come two,

Less feverish, less exalted-soon to part,

A Garrick and a Johnson; Wealth and Fame
Awaiting one—even at the gate, Neglect

And Want the other. But what multitudes,

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