LXXII. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, LXXIII. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desert past, As on a place of agony and strife, 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 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 And dust is as it should be, shall I not The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? 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 All objects, if compared with these? and stem A tide of suffering, rather than forego 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 Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest, 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 O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence- -as a tree Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 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 Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; 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. (19) 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, Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears? |