couldst not be, Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim From Brutus his own glory-and on thee Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail Amid his cowering senate with thy name, Though thou and he were great - it will avail To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail II. 'Twill wrong thee not-thou wouldst, if thou Like thee-he sanctified his country's steel, At once the tyrant and tyrannicide, In his own blood — a deed it was to bring Tears from all men pride, though full of gentle Such pride as from impetuous love may spring, That will not be refused its offering. To nurse the image of unfelt caresses Till dim imagination just possesses The half-created shadow. Nor custom, queen of many slaves, makes blind, Have ever grieved that man should be the spoil Of his own weakness, and with earnest mind Fed hopes of its redemption, these recur Chastened by deathful victory now, and find Foundations in this foulest age, and stir Me whom they cheer to be their minister. II. Dark is the realm of grief: but human things Those may not know who cannot weep for them. III. Once more descend The shadows of my soul upon mankind, For to those hearts with which they never blend, Thoughts are but shadows which the flashing mind From the swift clouds which track its flight of fire, Cast on the gloomy world it leaves behind. EALTH and dominion fade into the mass Of the great sea of human right and wrong, When once from our possession they must pass; But love, though misdirected, is among The things which are immortal, and surpass All that frail stuff which will be- or which was. Fragment: Thoughts in Y thoughts arise and fade in solitude, them melts away Like moonlight in the heaven of spreading day: How beautiful they were, how firm they stood, Flecking the starry sky like woven pearl! |