Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/300

264 Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm

Of those whose eyes are only turned below,

Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?

LXXVI.

But this is not my theme; and I return

To that which is immediate, and require

Those who find contemplation in the urn,

To look on One, whose dust was once all fire,—

A native of the land where I respire

The clear air for a while—a passing guest,

Where he became a being,—whose desire

Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest,

The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest.

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