LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes LXXXVIII. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! Of men and empires, 'tis to be forgiven, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 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, And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:- 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, Of that which is of all Creator and defence. K XC. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt A truth, which through our being then doth melt The soul and source of music, which makes known 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 XCII. The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night, 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 shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 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 way, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’d 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. But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? 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, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contain'd no tomb,— And glowing into day: we may resume Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep Love! By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. |