LXV. By a lone wall a lonelier column rears Yet still with consciousness, and there it stands When the coeval pride of human hands, Levell❜d 15) Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. LXVI. And there-oh! sweet and sacred be the name! crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save. Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust 16). LXVII. But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; The high, the mountain-majesty of worth In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow 17), Imperishably pure beyond all things below. LXVIII. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, There is too much of man here. to look through Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. LXIX. To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; In the hot throng, where we become the spoil We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. LXX. There, in a moment, we may plunge our years Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears. Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. LXXI. Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? LXXII. I life not in myself, but I become Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. LXXIII. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. 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 immor. tal lot? LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return a passing guest, 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 fast. LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence — as a tree In him existence, and o'erflowing teems LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Júlie, this Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest 19). LXXX. His life was one long war with self- sought foes, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But he was phrensied, know? wherefore, who may Since cause might be which skill could never find; LXXXI. For then he was inspired, and from him came, 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 Bow'd 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? LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument! things which grew, Breathed from the bird of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay all earth shall view. Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 1 |