Monument of our own age`s shame, On thy country casting endless blame, Rousseau`s grave, how dear thou art to me Calm repose be to thy ashes blest! In thy life thou vainly sought`st for rest, But at length `twas here obtained by thee! When will ancient wounds be covered o`er? Wise men died in heathen days of yore; Now `tis lighter—yet they die again. Socrates was killed by sophists vile, Rousseau meets his death through Christians` wile,— Rousseau—who would fain make Christians men!SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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