LXXIV. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, And dust is as it should be, shall I not 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 Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return 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 fast. LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence as a tree In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Júlie, this This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. (:9) LXXX. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. LXXXI. For then he was inspired, and from him came, Broken and trembling, to the yoke she bore, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown fears? LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions-things which grew And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have 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 her 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 prey? |