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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.

CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes,-for by them, 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.

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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.

СХ. 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.

Thus far I have proceeded in a theme
Renew'd 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.

And for these words, thus woven into song,
It may be that they are a harmless wile,--
The colouring of the scenes which fleet 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 regard men's frown or smile,

As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;
I stood and stand alone,--remember'd or forgot,


CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd To its 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.

CXIV. I have not loved the world, nor the world me,But let us part fair foes; I do believe, 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; (25)

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 endI 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,

n and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

To aid thy mind's developement,-to watch
Thy dawn of little joys-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,—to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,-wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,-
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;

Yet this was in my nature:-as it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

CXVII. Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation,—and a broken claim: Though the grave closed between us, twere the same, I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain My blood from out thy being, were an aim,

And an attainment,-all would be in vain,-Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain.

The child of love,-though born in bitternes,
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire
These were the elements,—and thine no less.
As yet such are around thee,—but thy fire
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea,
And from the mountains where I now respire,

Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me!

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