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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 enamour'd, were in him the sam

ame.
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, distemper'd though it seems.

LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ;

In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.

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