XCVI. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,—could I wreak With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. XCVIII. The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contain❜d no tomb,— And glowing into day: we may resume Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. XCIX. Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep Love! The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, [mocks. Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then C. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,- Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. CI. All things are here of him; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude, CII. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. CIII. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity! CIV. 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne. CV. Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes (23) They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim On man and man's research could deign do more than smile. CVI. The one was fire and fickleness, a child, CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes,-for by them, It is not ours to judge, far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all,-or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow,-in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. CX. Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. |