The heart too cold to feel the generous glow,
The heart that melts not at another's woe,
The heart that owns not Handel's angel-lay
Shall sleep for ever in its house of clay:
There Genius never dwells an happy guest,
She finds no entrance in the frozen breast.
Though erring taste be found in early years,
Yet blooming genius oft in youth appears;
Youth sometimes burns with all the poet's rage,
And speaks the glory of a riper age.*
* Cowley, Dryden, and Chatterton, wrote several admired poems at a very early age. Milton wrote his paraphrases of the CXIV and cxv psalms, at fifteen years of age. Tasso wrote his heroic poem, entitled Rinaldo, before he had attained his eighteenth year. Metastatio wrote a tragedy, entitled Guestino, while in his sixteenth year. Pope, when no more than twelve years of age, wrote his ode on Solitude; when sixteen he wrote his Pastorals; and when twenty he wrote his Essay on Criticism. Collins, while he was in his eighteenth year, wrote his Eclogues. The orator Bossuet discovered in some measure, while a schoolboy, his great powers. Of him the poet might have said:
"Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled,
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped."
---It is related of Michael Angelo that he employed himself, when a child, in drawing with a coal, rude outlines of figures. His parents, who were noble, endeavoured to re
Behold where bursts the golden orb of day!
He rolls exulting in his fervid way;
He grows in strength till from meridian height,
He pours on earth his streams of burning light.
Thus Genius first begins her brightening course,
Proceeds increasing in resistless force;
And all collected in one great design,
Moves like a giant just refresh'd with wine:
Then sv
sweeps the storm which chills with loud alarm, Then falls the vigour of Alcides' arm.
The poet often gains a madman's name. When first he kindles with the Muse's flame, When wild and starting he appears in pain,
And shews a moon-struck phrenzy of the brain; The world cries out, "What ails our neighbour's lad?
'Tis pity of the boy, for he is mad;"
He often laughs aloud, and none know why,"
And looks so strange and wildly from his eye;
Heedless he roves all pale with moody care,
What pleases others, he will never share.
press his darling propensity, not only by reprimands, but by stripes. The force of Genius, however, prevailed over the blushes and severity of his parents, and Angelo attained the highest eminence in painting, sculpture, and archi
At morn and evening, on yon giddy steep,
"Tis said he stands, and overhangs the deep.
"Tis said, he wanders at the dead of night,
And like a ghost, avoids the glare of light;
'Tis said, he babbles to the Moon's full-beam,
And sits, in silence, by the falling stream.
Research can scarcely modify and range
The various forms and times of mental change;
Beneath fond Nature's care our bodies grow,
And bear the bounty which her hands bestow.
But if to Nature and her free controul,
Be unmolested left the human soul,
In deepest ignorance she would ever dwell,
Dungeon'd with Night within her gloomy cell.
Different in man we see the growth of mind,
Onward moves Genius, Dullness stays behind.
External causes lead to different ways,
When passion prompts the ready mind obeys.
Some on the wings of wavering Fancy fly
While some in seas of metaphysics pry.
When first we enter life's deceitful scéne,
Gaze on the sun and tread the lively green,
All Nature's objects meet our busy eyes
With equal pleasure, with the same surprise.
The same excitements chill our soul with fear,
The same afflictions draw the melting tear;
The same gay prospects kindle warm desire
Bid Hope stand tiptoe with her torch on fire---
When farther on life's journey we pursue,
And wider prospects open to our view;
For different objects then our passions burn,
To different paths our inclinations turn.
----If we the progress of the mind survey,
From infant weakness to her sad decay,
We'll mark the change which years succeeding bring, The passions which from youth and manhood spring. When first our frame the strength of youth And novelty on every object blooms;
When knowledge first unrolls her endless page,
Rich with the records of preceding age,
The curious mind then roves with quick surprise,
Enjoys one object, to another flies;
Bends on each scene her momentary sight,
Sips like the bee, and wantons in delight.
---The wandering memory thro' the fields of lore
With thoughts and images augments her store:
Then Fancy fluttering in the morning beam, 119
Combines her pictures, gives to Hope her dream:
Then Judgment slumbering, we are led astray
And follow Fiction in her pathless way;
We love to listen to some dreadful tale
Which Mystery darkens with her magic veil.
We love to hear of ruins and of halls
Thro' which some dead-man's voice with shuddering accents calls.
When years revolving riper knowledge bring
And prune the wildness of young Fancy's wing,
Then Nature rises in true colours dress'd,
We feel her image pictur'd on the breast.
Then cold, disgusted at fair Falshood's charms,
We throw the wanton from our vigorous arms;
Press to our hearts the lovely form of Truth
Cloth'd in the beauty of immortal youth.
Then Judgment, Reason hold their steadfast
reign,
Nor feel the tangles of Delusion's chain.
Enchantment then no longer holds its sway
And Fancy's fairy landscape fades away.
Then toils the mind with firm unshaken pace,
And follows Error in her winding chace:
She searches Truth amidst the mighty deep,
She climbs for Knowledge up the rugged steep:
By demonstration she unveils Disguise,
And shews the haunt where lurking Folly lies.
At length old age steals o'er the bending frame
Destroys our vigour and our thirst for fame;
To mental toil, then weariness succeeds,
Remembrance looks upon our former deeds,
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