LXXXIX. All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 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. XCI. Not vainly did the early Persian make The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's realins 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, 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 That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed :Itself expired, but leaving them an age 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! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless,-If I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? 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, Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. XCIX. Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep love! The permanent crags, tell here of love, who sought 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 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 bowed 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, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, CIII. He who hath loved not, here would learn that love, For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, He stands not still, but or decays, or grows With the immortal lights, in its eternity! |