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LXXIV. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be . Existent happier in the fly and worm, When elements to elements conform, And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see less dazzling, but more warm?
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal
LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? should I not contemn All objects; if compared with these? and stem A tide of suffering, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare
L.XXVI. Bnt this is not my theme; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, Tho look on One, whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for a while - a passing guest, Where he became a being, - whose desire Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest.
LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O’er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence – as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of ideal beauty, which became In hini existence, and o’erflowing teems Along his burning page, distempered though it seems,
This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss
· LXXX. His life was one long war with self- sought foes, Or friends by him self - banish'd; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But he was phrenzied, - wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which skill could never find; But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning
LXXXI. for then he was inspired, and from him cáme, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more. Did he not this for France ? which lay before Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years ? Broken and trembling, to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o’ergrown fears ?
LXXXI. They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions — things which grew Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild T'pon the same foundation and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour
re-fill’d; As heretofore, because ambition was self-willd.
LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind liave felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; pity ceased to melt With ber once natural charities. But they, Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt,
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their