LXXIV.

   And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
   From what it hates in this degraded form,
   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? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?

LXXV.

   Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
   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?

LXXVI.

   But this is not my theme; and I return
   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 awhile—­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,
   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
   Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past
The eyes, which o’er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

LXXVIII.

   His love was passion’s essence—­as a tree
   On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
   Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be
   Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same. 
   But his was not the love of living dame,
   Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
   But of Ideal beauty, which became
   In him existence, and o’erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.

LXXIX.

   This breathed itself to life in Julie, this
   Invested her with all that’s wild and sweet;
   This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss
   Which every morn his fevered lip would greet,
   From hers, who but with friendship his would meet: 
   But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast
   Flashed the thrilled spirit’s love-devouring heat;
   In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest,
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.