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LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence —as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that 's wild and sweet; This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss () Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet; But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest Thanvulgarminds maybe withall they seek possest.(?) (1) This refers to the account in his “Confessions” of his passion for the Comtesse d’Houdetot (the mistress of St. Lambert), and his long walk every morning, for the sake of the single kiss which was the common salutation of French acquaintance. Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as the most passionate, yet not impure, description and expression of love that ever kindled into words; which, after all, must be felt, from their very force, to be inadequate to the delineation: a painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean. (2) [“Lord Byron's character of Rousseau is drawn with great force, great power of discrimination, and great eloquence. I know not that he says any thing which has not been said before, — but what he says issues, apparently, from the recesses of his own mind. It is a little laboured, which, possibly, may be caused by the form of the stanza into which it was necessary to throw it; but it cannot be doubted that the poet felt a sympathy for the enthusiastic tenderness of Rousseau's genius, which he could not have recognised with such extreme fervour, except from a consciousness

of having at least occasionally experienced similar emotions.”— SIR. E. ERoogFs.] -

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His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
Or friends by him self-banish'd; for his mind
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose,
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.
But he wasphrensied,—wherefore, who may know?
Since cause might be which skill could never find;
But he was phrensied by disease or woe,

To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning


For then he was inspired, and from him came,
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore,
Those oracles which set the world in flame,
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more :
Did he not this for France? which lay before
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years?
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore,
Till by the voice of him and his compeers

Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'er

grown fears?

They made themselves a fearful monuments
The wreck of old opinions—things which grew,
Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent,
And what behind it lay all earth shall view.
But good with ill they also overthrew,
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
Upon the same foundation, and renew [fill'd,
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-

As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd.

o of {/

But this will not endure, nor be endured 1
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


What deep wounds ever closed without a scar 2
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it; and they who war
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd,
Silence, but not submission: in his lair [bear
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour
Which shall atone for years; none need despair:
It came, it cometh, and will come, the power

To punish or forgive—in one we shall be slower.

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


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LXXXVI, It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;

He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse

Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. ()

(1) [During Lord Byron's stay in Switzerland, he took up his residence at the well-known Campagne-Diodati, in the village of Coligny. It stands at the top of a rapidly descending vineyard; the windows commanding, one way, a noble view of the lake and of Geneva; the other, up the lake. Every evening, the poet embarked on the lake; and to the feelings created by these excursions we owe these delightful stanzas. Of his mode of passing a day, the following, from the Journal already referred to, is a pleasant specimen: –

“September 18. Called. Got up at five. Hobhouse walked on before. Rode till within a mile of Vevay. Stopped at Vevay two hours. View from the church-yard superb ; within it Ludlow (the regicide's) monument — black marble — long inscription ; Latin, but simple. Near him. Broughton (who read King Charles's sentence to Charles Stuart) is buried, with a queer and rather canting inscription. Ludlow's house shown. Walked down to the lake side; servants, carriages, saddle-horses, —all set off, and left us plantés la, by some mistake. Hobhouse ran on

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Ye stars which are the poetry of heaven
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires, –’tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create \
In us such love and reverence from afar,

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them

selves a star.

All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep :-
All heaven and earth are still: From the high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
All is concenter'd in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

before, and overtook them. Arrived at Clarens. Went to Chillon through scenery worthy of I know not whom ; went over the castle again. Met an English party in a carriage; a lady in it fast asleep – fast asleep in the most anti-narcotic spot in the world,—excellent! After a slight and short dinner, visited the Château de Clarens. Saw all worth seeing, and then descended to the “Bosquet de Julie,’ &c. &c.: our guide full of Rousseau, whom he is eternally confounding with St. Preux, and mixing the man and the book. Went again as far as Chillon, to revisit the little torrent from the hill behind it. The corporal who showed the wonders of Chillon was as drunk as Blucher, and (to my mind) as great a man : he was deaf also ; and, thinking every one else so, roared out the legends of the castle so fearfully, that Hobhouse got out of humour. However, we saw things from the gallows to the dungeons. Sunset reflected in

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