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LXIV. While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vios, Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; They were true Glory's stainless victories, Won by the unambitious heart and hand or a proud , brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice- entail'd Corruption; they no land Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making kings' rigths divine, by some Draconic
LXV. By a lone wall a lonelier column Tears A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days, 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with the wild-bewildered gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands, Levell’d15 Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.
LXVI. And thiere oh! swect and sacred be the name! Julia - the daughter, the devoted - gave Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and her's would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, Aud then she died on him she could not save. Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart,
one dust. 16
LXVIII. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillnes of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and lue: There is too much of man here, to look through With a fit mind the might which I behold; But soon in me shall Loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had pennd' me in their
LXIX. Tho fly from, need 'not be to hate, mankind; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In the hot throng, where we become the spoil of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong Midst a contentious world, striving where none are LXX. There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er
LXXI. Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 18 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, Kissing its cries away as these awake; Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or
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 Of human cities torture: I can see Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
LXXIII. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desart past, As on a place of agony and srife, Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last 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