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 Rhone
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a
throne

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

smile.

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.

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 it 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.

CX.

Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,

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: to feel 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.

CXII.

And for these words, thus woven into song,
It may be that they are a harmless wile,
the colouring of the scenes which flect along,
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am not
So young as to regaid men's frown or smile,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

I stood and stand alone, - remembered or forgot.

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. E