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!

CIV.

"Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,

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 (23) 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 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,

"Twill 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; 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.

CXI.

Thus far I have 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.