CXXIII. Who loves, raves 'tis youth's frenzy—but the cure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; Seems ever near the prize-wealthiest when most undone. CXXIV. We wither from our youth, we gasp away- And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. CXXV. Few-none-find what they love or could have loved, Whose touch turns Hope to dust,-the dust we all have trod. CXXVI. Our life is a false nature-'tis not in The harmony of things,—this hard decree, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dewDisease, death, bondage-all the woes we see And worse, the woes we see not-which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. CXXVII. Yet let us ponder boldly-'tis a base (57) Our right of thought-our last and only place Is chain'd and tortured-cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CXXVIII. Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine As 'twere its natural torches, for divine Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume VOL. I. Ꮓ CXXIX. Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. CXXX. Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled- My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: CXXXI. Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain-shall they not mourn? CXXXII. And thou, who never yet of human wrong Had it but been from hands less near-in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! Dost thou not hear my heart?-Awake! thou shalt, and must. CXXXIII. It is not that I may not have incurr'd For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound; To thee I do devote it-thou shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, Which if I have not taken for the sake But let that pass-I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. CXXXIV. And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! CXXXV. That curse shall be Forgiveness.-Have I not Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven!- Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven? Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. CXXXVI. From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy Have I not seen what human things could do? CXXXVII. But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : |