XCVI. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? like those within the human breast? Are ye Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,-could I wreak Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe into one word, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. XCVIII. The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Much that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. XCIX. Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep love! And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought 22 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. C. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,- To which the steps are mountains; where the god CI. All things are here of him; from the black pines, Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 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 CIII. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 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 With the immortal lights, in its eternity! vie CIV 'T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 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 They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Thoughts which should call down thunder and the flame 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,— CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 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, 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; 'T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read To their most great and growing region, where CX. Italia! too,-Italia! looking on thee, Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, CXI. Thus far I have proceeded in a theme We are not what we have been, and to deem CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, I stood and stand alone,―remember'd or forgot. CXIII. 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 Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed 24 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 may be Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the falling: 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 begun― I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none |