re, the fretted gothic and massy saracenic pile, to the
stupendous arch and glorious dome, the fluted column with its capital,
Corinthian, Ionic, or Doric, the peristyle and fair entablature, whose
harmony of form is to the eye as musical concord to the ear!--farewell to
sculpture, where the pure marble mocks human flesh, and in the plastic
expression of the culled excellencies of the human shape, shines forth the
god!--farewell to painting, the high wrought sentiment and deep knowledge
of the artists's mind in pictured canvas--to paradisaical scenes, where
trees are ever vernal, and the ambrosial air rests in perpetual glow:--to
the stamped form of tempest, and wildest uproar of universal nature encaged
in the narrow frame, O farewell! Farewell to music, and the sound of song;
to the marriage of instruments, where the concord of soft and harsh unites
in sweet harmony, and gives wings to the panting listeners, whereby to
climb heaven, and learn the hidden pleasures of the eternals!--Farewell
to the well-trod stage; a truer tragedy is enacted on the world's ample
scene, that puts to shame mimic grief: to high-bred comedy, and the low
buffoon, farewell!--Man may laugh no more. Alas! to enumerate the
adornments of humanity, shews, by what we have lost, how supremely great
man was. It is all over now. He is solitary; like our first parents
expelled from Paradise, he looks back towards the scene he has quitted. The
high walls of the tomb, and the flaming sword of plague, lie between it and
him. Like to our first parents, the whole earth is before him, a wide
desart. Unsupported and weak, let him wander through fields where the
unreaped corn stands in barren plenty, through copses planted by his
fathers, through towns built for his use. Posterity is no more; fame, and
ambition, and love, are words void of meaning; even as the cattle that
grazes in the field, do thou, O deserted one, lie down at evening-tide,
unknowing of the past, careless of the future, for from such fond ignorance
alone canst thou hope for ease!

Joy paints with its own colours every act and thought. The happy do not
feel poverty--for delight is as a gold-tissued robe, and crowns them with
priceless gems. Enjoyment plays the cook to their homely fare, and mingles
intoxication with their simple drink. Joy strews the hard couch with roses,
and makes labour ease.

Sorrow doubles the burthen to the bent-down back; plants thorns in the
unyielding pillow; mingles