vanes 370
  Spin in his eyesight, that contents him not,
  But, with the plaything at arm’s length, he sets
  His front against the blast, and runs amain,
  That it may whirl the faster. 
                                 Amid the depth
  Of those enormities, even thinking minds 375
  Forgot, at seasons, whence they had their being;
  Forgot that such a sound was ever heard
  As Liberty upon earth:  yet all beneath
  Her innocent authority was wrought,
  Nor could have been, without her blessed name. 380
  The illustrious wife of Roland, in the hour
  Of her composure, felt that agony,
  And gave it vent in her last words. [U] O Friend! 
  It was a lamentable time for man,
  Whether a hope had e’er been his or not; 385
  A woful time for them whose hopes survived
  The shock; most woful for those few who still
  Were flattered, and had trust in human kind: 
  They had the deepest feeling of the grief. 
  Meanwhile the Invaders fared as they deserved:  390
  The Herculean Commonwealth had put forth her arms,
  And throttled with an infant godhead’s might
  The snakes about her cradle; that was well,
  And as it should be; yet no cure for them
  Whose souls were sick with pain of what would be 395
  Hereafter brought in charge against mankind. 
  Most melancholy at that time, O Friend! 
  Were my day-thoughts,—­my nights were miserable;
  Through months, through years, long after the last beat
  Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep 400
  To me came rarely charged with natural gifts,
  Such ghastly visions had I of despair
  And tyranny, and implements of death;
  And innocent victims sinking under fear,
  And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer, 405
  Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds
  For sacrifice, and struggling with fond mirth
  And levity in dungeons, where the dust
  Was laid with tears.  Then suddenly the scene
  Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled me 410
  In long orations, which I strove to plead
  Before unjust tribunals,—­with a voice
  Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense,
  Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt
  In the last place of refuge—­my own soul. 415

    When I began in youth’s delightful prime
  To yield myself to Nature, when that strong
  And holy passion overcame me first,
  Nor day nor night, evening or morn, was free
  From its oppression.  But, O Power Supreme! 420
  Without Whose call this world would cease to breathe,
  Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost fill
  The veins that branch through every frame of life,