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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
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
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 not glow?
But this is not my theme; and I return
Tho look on One, whose dust was once all fire,
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.
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
O'er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly hue
as a tree
His love was passion's essence
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.
This breathed itself to life in Júlie, this
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 pos
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 show.
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 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?
things which grew
Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent,
Upon the same foundation and renew
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd,
As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd.
But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind lave 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?