XCIV. between Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed:- Of years all winters,-war within themselves to wage. XCV. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings, as if he did understand, 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. ye like those within the human breast? 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 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, The march of our existence: and thus I, 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! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above Glaciers have his colours caught, The very And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought (22) Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. C. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,- To which the steps are mountains; where the god CI. All things are here of him; from the black pines, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 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 Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 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, He stands not still, but or decays, or grows With the immortal lights, in its eternity! |