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Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted
Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them f LXII.
But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show Hew Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,— Moral! the proud, the patriot field ! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain; Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tomblest host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument;—the Stygian coast Uusepulchred they roam'd, andshriek'd each wandering ghost.
While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies,
By a lone wall a lonelier column rears
And there—oh! sweet and sacred be the name!— Julia—the daughter, the devoted—|jave Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save. Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.3
But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers aud the enslaved, their death and birlb; The high, the mountain-majesty of worth Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, And from its immortality look forth In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, Imperishably pure beyond all things below
Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,
To fly from, need not be to hate, mnnkind; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In the hot throng, where We become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But there are wanderers o'er eternity, Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be. LXXI.
Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, Kissing its cries away as these awake;— Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear?
I live not in myself, but I become
And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desart past, As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, 1 hough young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.