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, 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, 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 And Want the other. But what multitudes, |