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?[1][2]
LXXVI.
But this is not my theme; and I return[3]
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 a while—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,[4]
The apostle of Affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over Passion, and from Woe
- ↑ And gaze upon the ground with sordid thoughts and slow.—[MS.]
- ↑ [Compare Coleridge's Dejection. An Ode, iv. 4-9—
"And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd;
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the earth."] - ↑ But this is not a time—I must return.—[MS.]
- ↑ Here the reflecting Sophist——.—[MS.]
