over the tyrant's grave; — see, over this soil, the grave of Rome, Nature strews the wild flowers still!
In the midst of this desolation is an old building of the middle ages. Here dwells a singular recluse. In the season of the malaria the native peasant flies the rank vegetation round; but he, a stranger and a foreigner, breathes in safety the pestilential air. He has no friends, no associates, no companions, except books and instruments of science. He is often seen wandering over the grass-grown hills, or sauntering through the streets of the new city, not with the absent brow and incurious air of students, but with observant, piercing eyes, that seem to dive into the hearts of the passers-by. An old man, but not infirm — erect and stately, as if in his prime. None know whether he be rich or poor. He asks no charity, and he gives none — he does no evil, and seems to confer no good. He is a man who appears to have no world beyond himself; but appearances are deceitful; and Science, as well as Benevolence, lives in the Universe. This abode, for the first time since thus occupied, a visitor enters. It is Zanoni.
You observe those two men seated together, conversing earnestly. Years long and many have flown away since they met last — at least, bodily, and face to face. But if they are sages, thought can meet thought, and spirit spirit, though oceans divide the forms. Death itself divides not the wise. Thou meetest Plato when thine eyes moisten over the Phædo. May Homer live with all men for ever!
