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And food for meditation, nor pass by
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 The very Glaciers have his colours caught, And sun-set 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.
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.
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, 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 't is 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!
And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reard a throne.
cy. 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 assaild, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more than smile.
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,
CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation 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 answers to all doubts so eloquently well.
CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes,-for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid , 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, 'T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.
But let me quit man's works, again to read
To their most great and growing region, where
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;