LXXXI. For then he was inspired, and from him came, Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears? LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument! Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour LXXXV. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. LXXXVI. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes LXXXVIII. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! In us such love and reverence from afar, [a star. That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves LXXXIX. All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, Of that which is of all Creator and defence. XC. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt A truth, which through our being then doth melt The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, Binding all things with beauty;-'t would disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. XCI. Not vainly did the early Persian make Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, (20) and thus take The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, XCII. The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night, (21) And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! XCIII. And this is in the night:-Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,— A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted! Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters,-war within themselves to wage. XCV. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd That in such gaps as desolation work'd, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. |