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Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the eai
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Orchirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
LXXXVIII. 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 themselves a star.
LXXXIX. All heaven and earth are still — though not in
But hath a part of being, and a sense
xc. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt And purifies from self: it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which makes known
Binding all things with beauty;-'t would disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray’r!
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain - mirth. 1 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken.
hearted; Tho' in their souls, which thus each other
thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de.
parted: Itself expired, but leaving them an age of years all winters, - war within themselves
xcv. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft
his way, The mightiest of the storms hath t'aen his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder - bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, 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
XCVI. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, - if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal?
Are 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 My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong
All that I would have songht, and all I seek,
speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheating it as a
And food for meditation, nor pass by
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos,
Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, 3. His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Us Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate ci. All things are here of him; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the
shore, Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, 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,
cu. 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.
culi. 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 'tis his nature to advance or die; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity!
civ. 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections; but he found It was the scene which passion must allot To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground