‘If thirst of knowledge shall not then abate,
Follow it thou even to the night, but I _195
Am weary.’—Then like one who with the weight
Of his own words is staggered, wearily
He paused; and ere he could resume, I cried:
‘First, who art thou?’—‘Before thy memory,
‘I feared, loved, hated, suffered, did and died, _200
And if the spark with which Heaven lit my spirit
Had been with purer nutriment supplied,
‘Corruption would not now thus much inherit
Of what was once Rousseau,—nor this disguise
Stain that which ought to have disdained to wear it; _205
‘If I have been extinguished, yet there rise
A thousand beacons from the spark I bore’—
‘And who are those chained to the car?’—‘The wise,
‘The great, the unforgotten,—they who wore
Mitres and helms and crowns, or wreaths of light, _210
Signs of thought’s empire over thought—their lore
‘Taught them not this, to know themselves; their might
Could not repress the mystery within,
And for the morn of truth they feigned, deep night
‘Caught them ere evening.’—‘Who is he with chin _215
Upon his breast, and hands crossed on his chain?’—
‘The child of a fierce hour; he sought to win
‘The world, and lost all that it did contain
Of greatness, in its hope destroyed; and more
Of fame and peace than virtue’s self can gain _220
‘Without the opportunity which bore
Him on its eagle pinions to the peak
From which a thousand climbers have before