CVI. The one was fire and fickleness, a child, Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, A wit as various,-gay, grave, sage, or wild,— Historian, bard, philosopher, combined; He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents: But his own Breathed most in ridicule,-which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,— Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes,—for by them, It is not ours to judge,-far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all,-or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow,-in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, "Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. CX. Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, CXI. Thus far I have proceeded in a theme Is a stern task of soul:-No matter,-it is taught. CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or forgot. CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me e; I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud They could not deem me one of such; I stood Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed (24) my mind, which thus itself subdued. CXIV. I have not loved the world, nor the world me,- Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; (25) That two, or one, are almost what they seem,That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. CXV. My daughter! with thy name this song begun— My daughter! with thy name thus much shall endI see thee not,—I hear thee not,—but none Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart,-when mine is cold,A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. |