ir roots
into Oriental soils, and beneath Oriental skies prosperously expanded
their long-enduring umbrage, where might is right, and submission
virtue, noble-minded men--for sake of that peace which is ever dearest
to the human heart, and if it descend not a glad and gracious gift from
Heaven, will yet not ungratefully be accepted when breathed somewhat
sadly from the quieted bosom of earth by tyranny saved from
trouble--have submitted, almost without mourning, to sing "many a lovely
lay," that perished like the flowers around them, in praise of the Power
at whose footstool they "stooped their anointed heads as low as death."
Even then has Genius been honoured, because though it ceased to be
august, still it was beautiful; it seemed to change fetters of iron into
bands of roses, and to halo with a glory the brows of slaves. The
wine-cup mantled in its light; and Love forgot in the bower Poetry built
for bliss, that the bride might be torn from the bridegroom's bosom on
her bridal night by a tyrant's lust. Even there Genius was happy, and
diffused happiness; at its bidding was heard pipe, tabor, and dulcimer;
and to its lips "warbling melody" life floated by, in the midst of all
oppression, a not undelightful dream!

But how has it been with us in our Green Island of the West? Some people
are afraid of revolutions. Heaven pity them! we have had a hundred since
the Roman bridged our rivers, and led his highways over our mountains.
And what the worse have we been of being thus revolved? We are no
radicals; but we dearly love a revolution--like that of the stars. No
two nights are the heavens the same--all the luminaries are revolving
to the music of their own spheres. Look, we beseech you, on that
new-risen star. He is elected by universal suffrage--a glorious
representative of a million lesser lights; and on dissolution of _that_
Parliament--how silent but how eloquent!--he is sure of his return. Why,
we should dearly love the late revolution we have seen below--it is no
longer called Reform--were it to fling up to free light from fettered
darkness a few fine bold original spirits, who might give the whole
world a new character, and a more majestic aspect to crouching life. But
we look abroad and see strutting to and fro the sons of little men blown
up with vanity, in a land where tradition not yet old tells of a race of
giants. We are ashamed of ourselves to think we feared the throes of the
times, seeing not portentous