Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way be tween Heights which appear as lovers who have parted That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Love was the very root of the fond 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. 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, And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings,- —as if he did understand, That in such gaps as desolation work'd There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 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 departed voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,-could I wreak Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe into one word, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Much that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. SONNET TO GENEVRA. Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, THE GIAOUR. "How name ye yon lone Caloyer? His features I have scanned before In mine own land: 'tis many a year, Since dashing by the lonely shore, I saw him urge as fleet a steed As ever served a horseman's need. But once I saw that face, yet then It was so marked with inward pain, I could not pass it by again; It breathes the same dark spirit now As death were stamp'd upon his brow." ""Tis twice three years at summer tide Since first among our freres he came ; And here it soothes him to abide For some dark deed he will not name. But never at our vesper prayer, Nor e'er before confession chair Kneels he, nor recks he when arise Incense or anthem to the skies, But broods within his cell alone, His faith and race alike unknown. The sea from Paynim land he crost, And here ascended from the coast; Yet seems he not of Othman race, But only Christian in his face : I'd judge him some stray renegade, Repentant of the change he made, Save that he shuns our holy shrine, Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. Great largess to these walls he brought, And thus our abbot's favour bought; But were I Prior, not a day Should brook such stranger's further stay, Should doom him there for aye to dwell. Of maiden whelmed beneath the sea; Which beckons onward to his grave, Dark and unearthy is the scowl Will others quail beneath his look, Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. From him the half-affrighted Friar When met alone could fain retire, As if that eye and bitter smile Transferred to others fear and guile : Nor oft to smile descendeth he, How that pale lip will curl and quiver! A noble soul, and lineage high: Alas! though both bestowed in vain, Which grief could change, and guilt could stain, It was no vulgar tenement To which such lofty gifts were lent, Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, Pleads haughtily for glories gone! |