LXXXVIII. Ye stars! which are the poetry of Heaven! A beauty and a mystery, and create ye are In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. LXXXIX. All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, XC. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt The soul and source of music, which makes known 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 Come, and compare XCII. 23 The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night,' 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! Nor 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! ХСІІІ. And this is in the night-most glorious night! Of XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed; years all winters,- -war within themselves to wage. XCV. Now, where the quick Rhone thus has 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. 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, And glowing into day: we may resume Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room 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,— Not on those summits solely, nor alone CI. All things are here of him; from the black pines, Which slope his green path downward to the shore, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 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, 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 't is his nature to advance or die: He stands not still, but or decays, or grows With the immortal lights, in its eternity! 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, 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. |