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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;

LXXXVII.
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil.

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

sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: -
All heaven and earth are still: From the high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
All is concenter'd in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all creator and defence.

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
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,

Binding all things with beauty;-'t would disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

xC).
Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains 20), and thus take
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
The spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare
Columns and idol- dwellings, Goth or Greek,

With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray’r!

XCII.
The sky is changed! – and such a change! Oh

night 21),
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! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now had found a tongue,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

XCIII.
And this is in the night: – Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
As sharer in thy fierce and far delight, -
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain conies dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black, and now, the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain - mirth. 1 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's

birth.

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Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way

between

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

to wage.

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

lurk'd.

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

or weak,

All that I would have songht, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe - into one word,
And that one word were Lightning, I would

speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheating it as a

sword.

XCVIII.
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, -
And glowing into day: we may resume
The march of our existence: and thus I,
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room

And food for meditation, nor pass by
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
The very Glaciers have his colours caught,
And sunset into rose. hues sees them wrought 27)
By rays which sleep there lovingly, the rocks,
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who

songht

In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos,

then mocks.

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Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne
To which the steps are mountains; where the god
Is a pervading life and light, - so shown
Not on those summits solely, nor alone
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower

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

hour.

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

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