LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence--as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of Ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.