LXXXI.

For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no

more:

Did he not this for France, which lay before Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years? Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o’ergrown fears?

LXXXII.

They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions

grew,

things which

Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they

rent,

And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.
But good with ill they also overthrew,

Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
Upon the same foundation, and renew
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour
refill'd,

As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd.

LXXXIII.

But this will not endure, nor be endur'd! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.

They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt On one another; pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day: What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?

LXXXIV.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear

Silence, but not submission: in his lair

Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair: It came, it cometh, and will come,the power To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower.

LXXXV.

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,

With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing

Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing

To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

LXXXVI.

It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the
shore,

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol
more;

LXXXVII.

He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.

There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

LXXXVIII.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires, -'tis to be forgiven,

That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create

In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

LXXXIX.

All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,

But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: All heaven and earth are still: From the high host

Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, All is concenter'd in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

XC.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;
A truth, which through our being then do
melt,

And purifies from self: it is a tone,

The soul and source of music, which mak

known

Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,

Binding all things with beauty;

disarm

- 'two

The spectre Death, had he substantial power harm.

XCI.

Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus tak
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are wea
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and co
pare

Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek