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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.
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
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.