XXXI

Behold the Man of God, reclined apart
In solitary state, the human sun
That lighted chainless Israel to depart,
Guiding their pilgrim feet with toil foredone,
Through cloven waves and pathless deserts won,
Watched o'er by pillared fires; the seer alone
Who looked from Sinai's mount upon the One ;
There the great Hebrew prophet on his throne
Seated, as if with watching into marble grown.

XXXII

He holds the Law, that law stamped scorching, given
In earthquake, thunder, and in flame; his brow
Is radiant with glory caught from heaven,
As when confronting Godhead, he dared bow
To human fears, nor boundless faith avow.
Wrathful from his high seat his eye surveys
The hosts to Mammon prostrate then as now;
In vice embruted, even while lightning rays
Streamed from the fiery mount on their besotted gaze.

XXXIII

Dread Statue of austerest majesty!
Form of the heroic time! thou dost reveal
Gleams of our nature's past sublimity.
Who can behold thy prophet-brow, nor feel
The awe, the reverential fear, and weal
Of grey religion, faith august as thine?
Truth on thy massive forehead stamps her seal;
A light doth from those full-orbed eyeballs shine,
The glory thou didst veil reflecting the divine.

XXXIV

The mind beholding thee becomes antique,
Impregnated with thy unconscious power,
Till lesser forms diminished seem and weak;
The soul assumes thy strength as its own dower,
And upward looks to thee as to a tower,
Stern Image of sublime humanity!
What are the vain regrets of our brief hour?
Dare we repine? even thou wert doomed to die,
Then when God's promised land first opened on thine eye.

XXXV

Synod of gods and heroes! symbols ye
Of strength, of beauty, and sedate repose,
Such as befits your immortality;
Of that majestic mood no tax that owes
To the wild rule of impulses, that chose
Its throne above hope, envy, hate, or fear;
Our aim, by life e'er baffled, to compose
Our spirits thus by suffering shaken, ere
We rise beyond the storms that vex our nether sphere.

XXXVI

We turn aside to meditate, to dwell
Upon the beautiful, ourselves a part,
The unconscious bosom its receptacle;
To feel the calm sublimities of Art,
The moral elevation of the heart;
And where find we a home for thoughtful rest,
Save in the quietude thou dost impart,
Maternal Nature? who e'er turned oppressed
To thee, nor comfort found reposing on thy breast?

XXXVII

And, could we choose a spot, this vale Elysian
Would bound ambition's wishes; but there dwells
Within its sanctuary a deathless vision,
A faith to which the bosom fondly swells,
Believing in it more than oracles.
Enter yon earthen grot with violets crowned,
Haunt where tradition weaves its brightest spells;
A spirit dwelt within that hallowed mound
To whom sage Numa knelt in reverence profound:

XXXVIII

Gathering from her sweet lips the wisdom poured
Pure as the fount of her attestings stream,
At whose turf-altar grateful Rome adored;
Who would disturb or wake from such a dream
On whose clear vision mirroring truth doth beam?
There met the lovers when no footstep rude
Profaned their haunts, Spirit, that reign'st supreme
Here even now, still to be won if wooed,
Sacred Egeria, hear! thy name is solitude.

XXXIX

Egerian solitude! the spell still lingers
That chains us to this spot, 'tis beauty; here
All delicately twined are her fine fingers
With the wild flowers whose spring-time is the year;
Rome in the deep blue distance doth appear;
The murmurs of her life to us are borne
Faintly as once on Numa's musing ear,
Creating the same human thoughts that mourn
The shows of naked life, its tinsel trappings shorn.

XL

The Tusculum of Cicero! the name
To him endeared, and unto us entwined
With his light plaints, and vanity, and fame.
Here where to fitful solitude resigned,
He bodied forth those thoughts to time consigned,
On life, and on futurity; and planned
That passionate eloquence of mastering mind,
The conscious Catiline dared not withstand,
Awe-struck, and felled as if from Jove's resistless hand.