Here moves the Genius of Romance, With lofty mien and eagle glance-- No plumed casque adorns his brow-- No glittering falchion does he wield-- Nor lance bears he, nor 'scutcheoned shield. Nor among fallen columns low, Behold him crouch and muse upon The shattered forms of sculptured stone-- Fair classic marbles, which recall The glories of an ancient time-- Its pride--its splendor and its fall-- Such things belong not to our clime. The Genius of our Solitude Stalks forth in hunter's garb arrayed, A child of nature--wild and rude-- Yet not averse to gentle mood: The same high spirit, undismayed, Amid the stormy battles roar, As when he wooes his dusky maid, Beside some dim lake's lonely shore; Or paddles his skiff at eventide, O'er Niagara's waters wide. * * * * * 'Tis sweet to sit alone, and muse In such a spot as this-- Thus imperceptibly to lose In dim, imagined bliss, The vulgar thoughts and cares that shroud The spirits of the busy crowd-- That chain their grovelling minds to earth And wretched things of little worth. Years seem not many, since a child, I loved to haunt this pathless wild, And wearied lay me down to rest Upon some broad rock's mossy breast, Lulled by a dreamy listless thought, From loneliness and quiet caught-- {15} Or, prying with most curious eye Into dark hollows, to descry Some robber haunt or hidden grot, Where haply it might be my lot, Like Alla-Ad-Deen, to find a treasure Of gems and jewels without measure. But what a change is wrought since then! I've mingled with the world and men, Who scoff at boyhood's guiltless joys, Yet scorn them but for _greater_ toys. Well--let them mar their health for fame, And waste their days, to gain a name, Built on the rabble's wretched praise, Whose voice awhile may sink or raise, But cannot rescue from the lot Old Time, the despot, hath assigned Impartially to all earth's kind. Such record vain I envy not, Nor burn with mightier men to mate-- The followers of a fiercer fate, Who trample on all human good To win awards least understood. Such is renown reaped with the sword-- Such glory! Empty, fatal word, That lures men on through fire and flood-- Through scenes of rapine, crime and blood, To write in history's page, a tale, O'er which their fellow man grows pale. Could half the tears they cause to flow Bedew that page--how few could read The blotted record of each deed, Which laid the brave by thousands low And broke more living hearts with wo, That ONE might be what good men hate, And fools and knaves miscal "THE GREAT." ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES. INAUGURAL ADDRESS, DELIVERED BY THE REV. STEPHEN OLIN, President of Randolph-Macon College, on the occasion of his induction into office, 5th March, 1834. _Richmond: Nesbitt & Walker._