CIV. 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 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. B Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes 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 as 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, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes!—for by them, It is not ours to judge,-far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made By slumber, on one pillow,—in the dust, And when it shall revive, as is our trust, CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read To their most great and growing region, where CX. Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still 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 anght,— 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, young as to regard men's frown or smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; I stood and stand alone,—remembered or forgot. CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud They could not deem me one of such; I stood Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still co Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. CXIV. I have not loved the worll, nor the world me,- Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things,hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem,That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. CXV. My daughter! with thy name this song begunMy daughter! with thy name thus much shall end-I see thee not.-I hear thee not,—but none Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart,-when mine is cold,——A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. CXVI. To aid thy mind's developement,-to watch And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,- I know not what is there, yet something like to this. Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, Though the grave closed between us,-'twere the same, CXVIII. The child of love,-though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, and thine no less. As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me! END OF CANTO III. |