When a creed is crumbling to atoms, all mankind trembles.
The lofty geniuses of Germany and Italy were already singing the new era to their offspring; Goeethe the sceptic poet, Schiller the republican poet, Klopstock the sacred poet, intoxicated with their strophes the universities and theatres; each shock of the events of Paris had its _contre coup_ and sonorous echo, multiplied by these writers on the borders of the Rhine.

Poetry is the remembrance and anticipation of things: what it celebrates is not yet dead, and what it sings already hath existence.

Poetry sang everywhere the unformed but impassioned hopes of the people.

It is a sure augury--it is full of enthusiasm, for its voice is heard on all sides; science, poetry, history, philosophy, the stage, mysticism, the arts, the genius of Europe under every form, had passed over to the Revolution: not one name of a man of reputation in all Europe could be cited who remained attached to the party of the past.

The past was overcome, because the mind of the human race had withdrawn from it--when the spirit hath flown life is extinct.