LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? Silence, but not submission: in his lair Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. LXXXV. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been sø moved, LXXXVI. It is the hush of night, and all between There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes LXXXVIII. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Our destinies o'erlaep their mortal state, In us such love and reverence from afar, LXXXIX. All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep, All is concentered in a life ་་་ and mountain-coast, T intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense 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. CXI. Not vainly did the early Persian make The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer! XCII. The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night, 21 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among ХСІІІ. And this is in the night: Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be And now again 'tis black, and now, the glee Of the toud hills shakes with its mountain- mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. |