I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each
   And one as all a ghastly gap did make
   In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
   Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
   The Archangel’s trump, not Glory’s, must awake
   Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame
   May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
   The fever of vain longing, and the name
So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

XXXII.

   They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: 
   The tree will wither long before it fall: 
   The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
   The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
   In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
   Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
   The bars survive the captive they enthral;
   The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: 

XXXIII.

   E’en as a broken mirror, which the glass
   In every fragment multiplies; and makes
   A thousand images of one that was,
   The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
   And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
   Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,
   And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
   Yet withers on till all without is old,
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
   As nothing did we die; but life will suit
   Itself to Sorrow’s most detested fruit,
   Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
   All ashes to the taste:  Did man compute
   Existence by enjoyment, and count o’er
Such hours ’gainst years of life,—­say, would he name threescore?

XXXV.

   The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: 
   They are enough:  and if thy tale be true,
   Thou, who didst grudge him e’en 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,
   Whose spirit anithetically mixed
   One moment of the mightiest, and again
   On little objects with like firmness fixed;
   Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,
   Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
   For daring made thy rise as fall:  thou seek’st
   Even now to reassume the imperial mien,
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!