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XXVIII. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal - sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms, - the day Battle's magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, - friend, foe, in one red burial
XXIX. Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sirc some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song; And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. Even where the thickest of wsr's tempest lower'd, They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young,
XXX. There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds, upon the wing, I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not
XXXI. I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Fortgetfulness were mercy for their sake: The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of
Fame May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honoured but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.
XXXII. They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling,
The tree will wither long before it fall;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:
XXXIII. Even as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies; and makes A thousand images of one that was, The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Shewing no visible sign, for such things are untoll. XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison, a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were As nothing did we die; but Life will suit Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the 8 Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste: Did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours'gainst years of life, - say, would he namo
XXXV. The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: They are enough; and if thy tale be true, Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's lips shall echo them, and say "Icre, where the sword united nations drew, "Our countrymen were warring on that day!" And this is much, and all which will not pass away.
XXXVI. There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit antithetically mixt One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixt, Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; For daring made thy rise as fall; thou'seek'st Even now so re-assuịne the imperial mien, Audshake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!
XXXVII. Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne'er inore bruited in men's minds than now That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deem'd thee for a time whale'er thou didst assert.