LXVIII. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, LXIX. To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind In the hot throng, where we become the spoil We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. LXX. There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, The race of life becomes a hopeless flight The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But there are wanderers o'er eternity, Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. LXXI. Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love earth only for its earthly sake? Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? LXXII. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, LXXIII. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast T: Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. LXXIV. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these? and stem A tide of suffering, rather than forego Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return The clear air for a while-a passing guest, LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The breath which made him wretched : yet he knew O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. The LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence-as a tree 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 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, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest, 19 LXXX. His life was one long war with self-sought foes 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind, To that worst pitch of all which wears a reasoning show. 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 ! 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, Upon the same foundation, and renew 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 What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, 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. LXXXV. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, 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, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more: LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes |