XXX. There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. (7) XXXI. I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. XXXII. They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: XXXIII. Even as a broken mirror, which the glass The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison,—a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were Like to the apples on the (8) Dead Sea's shore, Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life,—say, would he name threescore? XXXV. The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's lips shall echo them, and say— "Here, where the sword united nations drew, "Our countrymen were warring on that day!" And this is much, and all which will not pass away. XXXVI. There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, One moment of the mightiest, and again And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene! XXXVII. Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. XXXVIII. Oh, more or less than man-in high or low, However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. XXXIX. Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye; When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. |