Here the sensation blends with the idea; Life ever draws from the same fountain-head; The soul, like air, expands o'er earth and heaven. Here Genius feels at ease; its reveries Are here so gentle; its unrest is soothed: For one lost aim a thousand dreams are given, And nature cherishes, if man oppress; A gentle hand consoles, and binds the wound: E'en for the griefs that haunt the stricken heart, Is comfort here: by admiration fill'd, For God, all goodness; taught to penetrate The secret of his love; not thy brief days-- Mysterious heralds of eternity-- But in the fertile and majestic breast Of the immortal universe! Corinne was interrupted for some moments by impetuous applause. Oswald alone joined not in the noisy transport around him. He had bowed his head on his hand, when Corinne said---- "E'en for the sorrows of the stricken heart Is comfort here:" he had not raised it since. Corinne observed him; and from his features, the color of his hair, his dress, his height--indeed, from his whole appearance--recognised him as English. She was struck by the mourning which he wore, and his melancholy countenance. His gaze, then fixed upon herself, seemed gently to reproach her: she entered into his thoughts, and felt a wish to sympathize with him, by speaking of happiness with less reliance, and consecrating some few verses to Death in the midst of a festival. With this intention, she again took up her lyre; a few prolonged and touching tones silenced the assemblage, while thus she continued:---- Yet there are griefs which our consoling sky May not efface; but where will grief convey Noble and soft impressions to the soul, As it does here? Elsewhere the living cannot find them space For all their hurrying paths, and ardent hopes; And deserts, ruins, vacant palaces, Leave a vast vacancy to shadows;--Rome, Is she not now the country of the tomb? The Coliseum, and the obelisks-- The wonders brought from Egypt and from Greece-- From the extremity of time, here met, From Romulus to Leo--all are here, Greatness attracting greatness, that one place Might garner all that man could screen from time; All consecrate to funeral monuments. Our idle life is scarcely here perceived: The silence of the living to the dead Is homage: they endure, but we decay. The dead alone are honor'd, and alone Recorded still;--our destinies obscure Contrast the glories of our ancestors; Our present life leaves but the past entire, And deep the quiet around memory: Our trophies are the work of those no more: Genius itself ranks 'mid th' illustrious dead.