Rousseau
A monument to point our Age's shame,
A blot for ever on thy country's fame,
Grave of Rousseau, to me thou art right dear!
Over thy ruined life may quiet reign —
That quiet peace thyself had sought in vain —
Quiet and peace at least thou findest here!
When will these ancient wounds be covered o'er?
The wise oft perished in dark days of yore;
Now days are brighter, yet they die as then.
Socrates to the Sophists fell a prey,
Rousseau yields to the Christians of to-day:
— Rousseau! — who out of Christians fashioned men.
A blot for ever on thy country's fame,
Grave of Rousseau, to me thou art right dear!
Over thy ruined life may quiet reign —
That quiet peace thyself had sought in vain —
Quiet and peace at least thou findest here!
When will these ancient wounds be covered o'er?
The wise oft perished in dark days of yore;
Now days are brighter, yet they die as then.
Socrates to the Sophists fell a prey,
Rousseau yields to the Christians of to-day:
— Rousseau! — who out of Christians fashioned men.
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