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As if it were not, in this world of strife,
Save to the first deep consciousness of life.

And yet, by thy sweet. sorcery, is mine
Again the same fresh heart, - e'en fresh as thine, -

As when, entranced, I saw the mountain kings,
The giant Alps, from their dark purple beds
Rise ere the sun,* the while their crowned heads

Flashed with his thousand heralds' golden wings;
The while the courtly Borromean Isles
Looked on their mirrored forms with rippling smiles.

E'en in thy freshness do I see thee rise,
Bright, peerless Italy, thy gorgeous skies,

Thy lines of harmony, thy nameless hues, -
As 't were by passing Angels sportive dropped
From flowers of Paradise, but newly cropped,

Still bathed and glittering with celestial dews!
I see thee, and again what visions pass,
Called up by thee, as in some magic glass!

Again I feel the Tuscan Zephyrs brush
My youthful brow, and see them laughing rush,

As if their touch another sense had given,
Swift o'er the dodging grass, like living things;
In myriads glancing from their flickering wings

The rose and azure of their native heaven;
And now they mount, and through the sullen green
Of the dark laurel dart a silvery sheen.

The writer passed a night, and saw the sun rise, on the Lago Maggiore.

O, now, as once, pure playmates of the soul!
Bear me, as then, where the white billows roll

Of yon ethereal ocean, poised above.
How touching thus from that o'erhanging sea
To look upon the world! Now, more to me

Its wrongs and sorrows, nay, a wider love
Grows on my heart, than where its pleasures press,
And throng me round as one whom they would

bless.

This is thy voice, kind Nature, in the heart;
Who loves thee truly, loves thee not apart

From his own kind; for in thy humblest work
There lives an echo to some unborn thought,
Akin to man, his Maker, or his lot.

Nay, who has found not in his bosom lurk Some stranger feeling, far remote from earth, That still through earthly things awaits a birth?

O, thus to me be thou still ministrant,
Still of the universal Love descant
That all things crave, - thus visible in thee,

,
The type and register of what man was
Before sin thralled him, substituting laws

That fain from suffering would his spirit free; Nay, more, be hope, -- the soul's sure prophecy Of lost, regained, primeval harmony.

And now to thee, fair Sibyl, would I turn;
But how to say farewell I may not learn.

We part, but not forgetting we have met.

380 TO THE AUTHOR OF THE DIARY OF AN ENNUYÉE.

May that sweet sadness thou so well dost feign
To thee be ever feigned, -be but the strain

To which the happy soul doth often set
Her happiest moods; for joy and sadness dwell
As neighbours in the heart; - and now farewell!

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