LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 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 (1) 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. (2) (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 deline. ation: 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."; BRYDGES -SIR E LXXX. 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 was phrensied,-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 show. LXXXI. For then he was inspired, and from him came, Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument! [fill'd, Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re 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? 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. LXXXV. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, To waft me from distraction; once I loved A LXXXVI. It is the hush of night, and all between There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes (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 là, by some mistake. Hobhouse ran on LXXXVIII. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 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, 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 |