Beneath these battlements, within those walls,
Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls,
Doing his evil will, nor less elate
Than mightier heroes of a longer date.
What want these outlaws 10 conquerors should But History's purchased page to call them great? A wider space, an ornamented grave?
And he had learned to love,-I know not why,
For this in such as him seems strange of mood,-
The helpless looks of blooming infancy,
Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
To change like this, a mind so far imbued
With scorn of man, it little boots to know;
But thus it was; and though in solitude
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow,
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to
Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!
There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The mind is color'd by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; More mighty spots may rise-more glaring shine, But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft,-the glories of old days.
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 fall.
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 How 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,Mora! the proud, the patriot field! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain, Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument; the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost.14
While Waterloo with Canna's carnage vies, Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; They were true Glory's stainless victories, Won by the unambitious heart and hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-entail'd Corruption; they no land Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause.
By a lone wall a lonelier column rears
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days;
"Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze
Of one to stone converted by amaze,
Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands
Making a marvel that it not decays,
When the coeval pride of human hands,
Levell'd 15 Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject
lands.
And there-oh! sweet and sacred be the name!-
Julia-the daughter, the devoted-gave
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.16
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below,
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest.
Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,18
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,
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from wo
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.
XCII.
T'he sky is changed!-and such a change! Oh
night, 21
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as it 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!
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,
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb,-
And glowing into day; we may resume
The march of our existence: and thus I
Still on thy shores, fair Lemán! may find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly.
XCIX.
Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep Love,
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
Thy trees take root in Love: the snows above
The very Glaciers have his colors caught,
And sunset into rose hues sees them wrought
By rays which sleep there lovingly; the rocks
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who
sought
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,
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
Could I embody and unbosom now,
That which is most within me,-could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or
weak,
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe-into one word,
And that one word were lightning, I would speak;
But as it is, I live and die unheard, [sword.
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
For 'tis his nature to advance or die; [those
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a With the immortal lights, in its eternity'
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