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CIV. 'Twss not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections, but he found It was the scene which passion must allot To the mind's purified beings: 'twas the ground Where early. Love his Psyche's zone unbound, And hallowed it with loveliness: 'tis lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhono Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a
CV. Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes 23 of names which unto you bequeath'd a name; Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame: They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim, Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down thunder, and
the flame, Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more than
CVI. The one was fire and fickleness, a child, Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, A wit a various, - gay, grave, sage; or wild, Historian, bard, philosopher, combined; He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents: But his own Breathed most in ridicule; - which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.
CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony, - that master - spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from
fear, And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.
CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes, - for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid; It is not ours to judge, far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; And when iť shall revive, as is our trust, 'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.
CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air.
Сх. Italia! too, Italia! looking on thce, Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.
CXI. Thus far I have proceeded in a theme Renewed with no kind auspices : We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul: No matter, it is taught.
but I am not
XCIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flattered it's rank breath, nor bow'd To it's idolatries a patient knee, Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, - nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem' me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and
still could, Had I not filed 24 my mind, which thus itself subdued.