II.

"Trite truth," thou sayest--well, if trite it be, Why seek we ever from ourselves to flee? Pleased to deceive our sight, and loath to know, We bear the climate with us where we go!

To that immense Bethesda, whither still Each worse disease seeks cures for every ill; To that great well, in which the Heart at strife, Merges its own amidst the common life,-- Whatever name it take, or Public Zeal, Or Self-Ambition, still as sure to heal,-- From his sad hearth his sorrows Ruthven bore; Long shunn'd the strife of men, now sought once more. Flock'd to his board the Magnates of the Hour Who clasp for Fame its spectre-likeness--Power! The busy, babbling, talking, toiling race-- The Word-besiegers of the Fortress--Place! Waves, each on each, in sunlight hurrying on, A moment gilded--in a moment gone; For Honours fool but with deluding light-- The place it glides through, _not the wave_, is bright![B] The means, if not his ends, with these the same, In Ruthven, Party hail'd a Leader's name! Night after night the listening Senate hung On that roused mind, by Grief to Action stung! Night after night, when Action, spent and worn, Left yet more sad the soul it had upborne; The sight of Home the frown of Life renew'd-- The World gave Fame and Home a Solitude!