LXXXVIII.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we could read the fate Of man 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

LXXXIX.

[a star.

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 concentered 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;-'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. XCI.

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 prayer!

XCII.

Thesky 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 hath 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
A 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 comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shake with its mountains-mirtli,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
XCIV.

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;
Though 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 departed :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 ta'en 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 bath 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.

1

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, passion, feelings, strong or weak,
All that I would have sought, 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, sheathing 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 pondered 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 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, [mocks. Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then

C.

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 eyes is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. 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 bowed 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.

CII.

A populous solitude of bees and birds,

And fairy-form'd and many-coloured 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 mountains, 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 love,
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 dye;

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
Where early Love his Pysche's zone unbound,
And hallowed it with loveliness; 'tis lone,
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,
And sense, and sigh 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)
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name;
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,
A path to perpetuity of fame :

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim,
Was Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile

[flame

Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while

On man and man's research could deign do more than smile
CVI.

The one was fire and fickleness, a child,
Most mutable in wishes but in mind,

A wit as various,-gay, grave, sage, or wild,-
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined;
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents; But his own
Breathed most in ridicule,-which, as the wind,
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,-
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.
CVII.

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,
And hiving wisdom with each studious year,
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
The lord of irony,-that master-spell,

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.