eak--the heaving plain[ji]
Of Ocean, or the stars, mingle--and not in vain.
LXXIII.
And thus I am absorbed, 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,
To act and suffer, but remount at last[jj]
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.[jk][321]
LXXIV.
And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
From what it hates in this degraded form,[jl]
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?[jm]
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?[322]
LXXV.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part[jn]
Of me and of my Soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turned below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?[jo][323]
LXXVI.
But this is not my theme; and I return[jp]
To that which is immediate, and require
Those who find contemplation in the urn,
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire,--
A native of the land where I respire
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.
LXXVII.
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,[jq]
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[jr]
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