All his much-loved arts, is sighing for his country's broken laws: Happier HUMBOLDT'S mind in masses groups rocks, pebbles, trees, and grasses, Clouds, brooks, torrents, mountain passes; thence one grand conclusion draws; From the greatest and the least of Nature's works the Common Cause And purpose of them all divining. "Sages, in a well reclining, Saw the stars at noon-day shining," ancient legends said; but HIND Marching on in contemplation, by mere force of calculation Every wandering planet's station in the sunlit sky can find, Gazing at them from the deep recesses of his mighty mind. And as thus, with collimators, syphons, hydro-incubators, Seismoscopes and insulators, stuffed birds, insects, ferns and grasses, Microscopic preparations, tons of fire-new publications, Trophies of departed nations, jars of new invented gases, Lenses, crucibles, and gauges, all the hurried _cortège_ passes; CLAUDET, on the concourse gazing, as they come beneath the blazing Sun, much dust around them raising, dips his brush in solar flame; And so skilfully his art he plies, that 'ere the busy party From before his eye can start, he manages the whole to frame In one picture, as a fitting tribute to the House of Fame. Now the glens and gorges clearing, and on steep bare slopes appearing Blither grows our band at hearing, from the gazing crowd below, Shouts of praise and gratulation: but our joy to consternation Changes, on the observation that some men we do not know Have crept up by other paths, and share our glory as we go. And these interlopers blending thoughts of fame and pelf are vending Various wares while they're ascending. FOX the public fancy hits, At so much per scratch revealing scratches on the walls and ceiling, Made with infinite good feeling, by dead heroes, bards, and wits, To amuse an epileptic milliner between her fits. REICHENBACH here runs up, saying he can see a marsh light playing On the hill in open day; in swamps to sink above his knees For his pains he is devoted. 'Mongst the rest, too, here, I noted The unknown, but often quoted, author of the "Vestiges," Seeking for the geese that spring from barnacles that grow on trees. Here our path with doubts and dangers thick is set; for shabby strangers, Little better than bush-rangers, try our purses to retain: Pupils these of PROUDHON'S teaching: CARLYLE runs amongst us preaching That we are but wind-bags, screeching flunkies, shams and shadows vain: CULLEN, WISEMAN, NEWMAN, tell us our true path is down again. And a band, denominated Critics, of mere words created, (Like the horses who were stated to be children of the wind) Come to settle each pretension; but our best and wisest men shun The oft proffered intervention of these blind guides of the blind; On we press, and leave quacks, critics, dreamers, schemers, all behind.