LXXX.

   His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
   Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind
   Had grown Suspicion’s sanctuary, and chose
   For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,
   ’Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
   But he was frenzied,—­wherefore, who may know? 
   Since cause might be which skill could never find;
   But he was frenzied by disease or woe
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.

LXXXI.

   For then he was inspired, and from him came,
   As from the Pythian’s mystic cave of yore,
   Those oracles which set the world in flame,
   Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: 
   Did he not this for France, which lay before
   Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years? 
   Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore,
   Till by the voice of him and his compeers
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o’ergrown fears?

LXXXII.

   They made themselves a fearful monument! 
   The wreck of old opinions—­things which grew,
   Breathed from the birth of time:  the veil they rent,
   And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
   But good with ill they also overthrew,
   Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
   Upon the same foundation, and renew
   Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled,
As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed.

LXXXIII.

   But this will not endure, nor be endured! 
   Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
   They might have used it better, but, allured
   By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt
   On one another; Pity ceased to melt
   With her once natural charities.  But they,
   Who in Oppression’s darkness caved had dwelt,
   They were not eagles, nourished with the day;
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?

LXXXIV.

   What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
   The heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear
   That which disfigures it; and they who war
   With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear
   Silence, but not submission:  in his lair
   Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour
   Which shall atone for years; none need despair: 
   It came, it cometh, and will come,—­the power
To punish or forgive—­in one we shall be slower.

LXXXV.