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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 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 undheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a
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 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
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos,
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 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
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.
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
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!
'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,
A path to perpetuity of fame :
the flame Of Heaven, again assaiťd, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more
CVJ. The one was fire snd 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.
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 ;
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 His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate’er May be permitted, as my steps I bend
To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of
Сх. . 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, The fount at which the panting mind assuages
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial