XCIX.

Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love,
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above
very Glaciers have his colours caught,

The

and sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought (')
By rays which sleep there lovingly the rocks,
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,

Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

(1) Rousseau's Héloïse, Lettre 17, part 4, note. "Ces montagnes sont si hautes qu'une demi-heure après le soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore éclairés de ses rayons; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches une belle couleur de rose, qu'on apperçoit de fort loin."

This applies more particularly to the heights over Meillerie.

"J'allai à Vevay loger à la Clef, et pendant deux jours que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour cette ville un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et qui m'y a fait établir enfin les héros de mon roman. Je dirois volontiers à ceux qui ont du goût et qui sont sensibles: alez à Vevay-visitez le pays, examinez les sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas." Les Confessions, livre iv. page 306, Lyons ed, 1796.

In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake of Geneva; and, as far as my own observations have led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his "Héloïse," I can safely say, that in this there is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens, (with the scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, Eivan, and the entrances of the Rhone,) without being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the per. sons and events with which it has been peopled. But this is not all: the feeling with which all around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is of a still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere sympathy with individual passion; it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of our own participation of its good and of its glory; it is the great principle of the universe, which is there more condensed, but not loss manifested; and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the whole.

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by their adoption; he has shown his sense of their beauty by the selection; but they have done that for him which no human being could do for them.

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) to St. Gingo during a lake storm, which added to the magnificence of all around, although occasionally accompanied by danger to the boat, which was small and overloaded. It was over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meillerie for shelter during a tempest.

On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some fine old chestnut-trees on the lower part of the moun

tains.

On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. The hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods; one of these was named the "Bosquet de Julie;" and it is remarkable that, though long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bernard, (to whom the fand appertained,) that the ground might be enclosed into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and survived them.

Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the preservation of the "local habitations" he has given to airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernard has cut down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks of wine, and Buonaparte has

C.

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, –
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne
To which the steps are mountains; where the god
Is a pervading life and hght, so shown

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 sl pe 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 nis, 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,
And make his heart a spirit; he who knows

That tender mystery, will love the more,

For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes,

And the world's waste, have driven him far from those,

For 'tis his nature to advance or die;

He stands not still, but or decays, or grows

Into a boundless blessing, which may vie

With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

levelled part of the rocks of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. The road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree with a remark which I heard made that "La route vaut mieux que les souvenirs."

VOL. III.-K

CIV.

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spct,
Peopling it with affections; but he found
It was the scene which passion must allot
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound,
And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone,

And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,

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 (')
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name;

Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,
A path to perpetuity of fame :

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim.

Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile

Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame

Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while

On man and man's research could deign do more than smile

CVI.

The one was fire and fickleness, a child,

Most mutable in wishes, but in mind,

A wit as various,

gay, grave, sage, or wild, – Historian, bard, philosopher, combined;

He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents: But his own

Breathed most in ridicule,

which, as the wind,

Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.

CVII.

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,
And hiving wisdom with each studious year,
In medtiation dwelt, with learning wrought,
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
The lord of irony, that master-spell,

Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell,

Which answer to all doubts so eloquently well.

(1) Voltaire and Gibbon.

CVIII.

Yet, peace be with their ashes,

If merited, the penalty is paid;

- 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,
"I'will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.

CIX.

But let me quit man's works, again to read
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend
This page, which from my reveries I feed,
Until it seems prolonging without end.
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er
May be permitted, as my steps I bend

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.
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages

Who glorify thy consecrated pages;

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; stul The fount at which the panting mind assuages Here thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

CXI.

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to feel
We are not what we have been, and to deem
We are not what we should be, and to steel
The heart against itself; and to conceal,
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
Is a stern task of soul: No matter,

-

it is taught.

CXII.

And for these words, thus woven into song,
It may be that they are a harmless wile,
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am not
So young as to regard men's frown or smile,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

I stood and stand alone, remember'd or forgot.

CXIII.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me:
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,

Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, - nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd

They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroua

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, IIad I not filed (') my mind, which thus itself subdued.

CXIV.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me,

But let us part fair foes; I do believe

Though I have found them not, that there Ilay be

Words which are things, — hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave

Snares for the failing: I would also deern

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; (2) That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

CXV.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end
I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend :
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold.....
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

(1)

"If it be thus,

For Banquo's issue have I filed my murd"

Macbeth.

(2) It is said by Rochefoucault, that "there is always something in the misfortunos l men's best friends not displeasing to them."