XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; rage 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 mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, 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! 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, The march of our existence: and thus I, Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. XCIX. 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. 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 His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. CI. All things are here of him; from the black pines, 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, And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 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! |