Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power, But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour-- 'Tis your knell that it rings! To the popular tiger a prey is decreed, And the maw of Republican hunger will feed On _a banquet of Kings!_ "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY) GENIUS. (DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.) [Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.] Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth, Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind, Bears Genius--treasure of celestial birth, Within his solitary soul enshrined. Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure, Like the undying vultures', will be driven Into his noble heart, that must endure Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven, Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven. Still though his destiny on earth may be Grief and injustice; who would not endure With joyful calm, each proffered agony; Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure? What mortal feeling kindled in his soul That clear celestial flame, so pure and high, O'er which nor time nor death can have control, Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly From sufferings whose reward is Immortality? No! though the clamors of the envious crowd Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities. 'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread, Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head, While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight, More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light. MRS. TORRE HULME THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE. _("O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")_ [Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.] Forget? Can I forget the scented breath Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear; The strange awaking from a dream of death, The sudden thrill to find thee coming near? Our huts were desolate, and far away I heard thee calling me throughout the day, No one had seen thee pass, Trembling I came. Alas! Can I forget? Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms Died with the grief that from my bosom fell. Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms! Let there be no regrets and no farewell! Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow, Here of thy fatherland we whispered low; Here, music, praise, and prayer Filled the glad summer air. Can I forget?