Les Charmettes.

A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.— Their Menage.—Its Grossness.—Claude Anet.—Reverence with which the spot is now visited.—Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.—Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.—Impostures of Men of Genius.—Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc.

Strange power of Genius, that can throw

Round all that's vicious, weak, and low,

Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes

As dazzle even the steadiest eyes.

* * * * *

'Tis worse than weak—'tis wrong, 'tis shame,

This mean prostration before Fame;

This casting down beneath the car

Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are,

Life's purest, holiest decencies,

To be careered o'er as they please.

No—give triumphant Genius all

For which his loftiest wish can call:

If he be worshipt, let it be

  For attributes, his noblest, first;

Not with that base idolatry

  Which sanctifies his last and worst.

  I may be cold;—may want that glow

Of high romance which bards should know;

That holy homage which is felt

In treading where the great have dwelt;

This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,

  I fear, I feel, I have it not:—

For here at this still hour, to me

  The charms of this delightful spot,

Its calm seclusion from the throng,

  From all the heart would fain forget,

This narrow valley and the song

  Of its small murmuring rivulet,

The flitting to and fro of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once

In Eden ere the startling words

  Of man disturbed their orisons,

Those little, shadowy paths that wind

Up the hillside, with fruit-trees lined

And lighted only by the breaks

The gay wind in the foliage makes,

Or vistas here and there that ope

  Thro' weeping willows, like the snatches

Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope

  Even tho' the shade of sadness catches!—

All this, which—could I once but lose

  The memory of those vulgar ties

Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues

  Of Genius can no more disguise

Than the sun's beams can do away

The filth of fens o'er which they play—

This scene which would have filled my heart

  With thoughts of all that happiest is;—

Of Love where self hath only part,

  As echoing back another's bliss;

Of solitude secure and sweet.

Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet.

Which while it shelters never chills

  Our sympathies with human woe,

But keeps them like sequestered rills

Purer and fresher in their flow;

Of happy days that share their beams

  'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ;

Of tranquil nights that give in dreams

  The moonlight of the morning's joy!—

All this my heart could dwell on here,

But for those gross mementoes near;

Those sullying truths that cross the track

Of each sweet thought and drive them back

Full into all the mire and strife

And vanities of that man's life,

Who more than all that e'er have glowed

  With fancy's flame (and it was his,

In fullest warmth and radiance) showed

  What an impostor Genius is;

How with that strong, mimetic art

  Which forms its life and soul, it takes

All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,

  Nor feels itself one throb it wakes;

How like a gem its light may smile

  O'er the dark path by mortals trod,

Itself as mean a worm the while

  As crawls at midnight o'er the sod;

What gentle words and thoughts may fall

  From its false lip, what zeal to bless,

While home, friends, kindred, country, all,

  Lie waste beneath its selfishness;

How with the pencil hardly dry

  From coloring up such scenes of love

And beauty as make young hearts sigh

  And dream and think thro' heaven they rove,

They who can thus describe and move,

  The very workers of these charms,

Nor seek nor know a joy above

  Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all in short that makes the boast

Of their false tongues they want the most;

And while with freedom on their lips,

  Sounding their timbrels, to set free

This bright world, laboring in the eclipse

  Of priestcraft and of slavery,—

They may themselves be slaves as low

  As ever Lord or Patron made

To blossom in his smile or grow

  Like stunted brushwood in his shade.

Out on the craft!—I'd rather be

  One of those hinds that round me tread,

With just enough of sense to see

  The noonday sun that's o'er his head,

Than thus with high-built genius curst,

  That hath no heart for its foundation,

Be all at once that's brightest, worst,

  Sublimest, meanest in creation!