XCIX Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love! And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought 930 The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 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 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, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. 940 CI All things are here of him; from the black pines, 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. 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 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 950 960 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! PARNASSUS CIV 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 970 And sense, and sight 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 Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 980 Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame 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,— He multiplied himself among mankind, Breathed most in ridicule,-which, as the wind, CVII The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 990 1000 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. CVIII Yet, peace be with their ashes,-for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid; It is not ours to judge,-far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all, or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; 1010 And when it shall revive, as is our trust, Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. CIX But let me quit man's works, again to read To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. CX Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 1020 Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. 1030 CXI Thus far have I proceeded in a theme We are not what we have been, and to deem The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— Is a stern task of soul:-No matter,-it is taught. CXII And for these words, thus woven into song, I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or forgot. CXIII I have not loved the world, nor the world me; 1040 1050 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud They could not deem me one of such; I stood Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. CXIV I have not loved the world, nor the world loved me.— But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be 1060 Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing; I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. CXV My daughter! with thy name this song begun; CXVI To aid thy mind's development, to watch I know not what is there, yet something like to this. CXVII Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, 1070 1080 1090 Though the grave closed between us,-'twere the same, And an attainment,-all would be in vain,— Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. CXVIII The child of love, though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me. 1100 CANTO THE FOURTH 'Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, I Ariosto, Satira iii. I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; I saw from out the wave her structures rise O'er the far times, when many a subject land Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles ! II She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. III In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! IV But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, 10 20 309 |