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With thick and lurid canopy of cloud
The heaven-aspiring heights. He smiles amid
The soft and silver webs, that wreathingly
In fleecy folds hang round their giant sides,
Ting'd by the rose hues which the snows are

When evening melts into the west away.-
Oh! that in scenes like these, the meanly great,
Whose talents promis'd what their lives belied,
Should e'er have wander'd, and refus'd to join
In grateful eloquence with all around!
Rousseau! Voltaire! wisdom in vain for you
Display'd her stores of thought; in vain be-

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Talents to captivate a listening world;
Imperfect all without the guiding light
Of humble piety. Rousseau, couldst thou
Borrow from nature all her loveliest hues,
And imitate her simple elegance,
Dipping thy pencil in the beams of Heaven,
To clothe and colour with ethereal beauty
The gross distemper'd images of sin?
Couldst thou, Voltaire, whose gifted genius

Brilliant alike on every varied theme,
Pour the cold lustre of thy heartless wit,
To lure unheeding man to death eternal?

So the pale moonbeam on the beetling crag Plays with her borrow'd light, white dazzled eyes

Behold not death's dark horrors, darker made
In many a hidden gulph which yawns below
Religion, like the sun, alone reveals,

In its true form, the precipice of death,
And banishes distorted light and shade.





*Still shall ye light the world: e'en from the tomb

Departed genius waves her quenchless flame,
To prove a beacon light to all mankind:
Still shall ye light the world, but wond'ring man
Shall view, with mingled pity and disgust,
The torch still blazing with infernal fires,
And think upon his Saviour's words: "Beware,
Lest light should in thy bosom darkness prove."





The tombs of Rousseau and Voltaire, in the vaults of the Pantheon, at Paris, exactly resemble each other; and from each, a hand is extended, holding forth a flaming torch; and these words, or some resembling them, are engraved on each!" I still light the world.”


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