C. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,- In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eyes 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 bowed 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, He who hath loved not, here would learn that love, That tender mystery, will love the more, 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, Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes (23) They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim, [flame Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more than smile The one was fire and fickleness, a child, A wit as various,-gay, grave, sage, or wild,- The Proteus of their talents; But his own 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 Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; 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. Italiä! 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, Thus far I have proceeded in a theme CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, I stood and stand alone,-remembered or forgot. I have not loved the world nor the world me; Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud They could not deem me one of such; I stood CXIV. subdued. I have not loved the world, nor the world me,— Though I have found them not, that there may be Snares for the failing: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; (25) 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 begunMy daughter! with thy name thus much shall endI 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 shoulds't 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. CXVI. To aid thy mind's developement,—to watch I know not what is there, yet something like to this. Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, Though the grave closed between us,-'twere the same And an attainment,-all would be in vain, Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain CXVIII. The child of love,-though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements,-and thine no less. As yet such are around thee, but thy fire Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumber! O'er the sea, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me! END OF CANTO III. |