Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way be

tween

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,

That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each other
thwarted,

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?
Are ye like those within the human breast?

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
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passion, 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,

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.
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 contained no tomb,-
And glowing into day: we may resume
The march of our existence: and thus I,
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by

Much that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.

SONNET TO GENEVRA.

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow :-
And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes—but oh !
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

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,
Or pent within our penance cell

Should doom him there for aye to dwell.
Much in his visions mutters he

Of maiden whelmed beneath the sea;
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying,
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying.
On cliff he hath been known to stand,
And rave as to some bloody hand
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb,
Invisible to all but him,

Which beckons onward to his grave,
And lures to leap into the wave.

Dark and unearthy is the scowl
That glares beneath his dusky cowl:
The flash of that dilating eye
Reveals too much of times gone by;
Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue,
For in it lurks that nameless spell
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,
A spirit yet unquell'd and high,
That claims and keeps ascendancy;
And like the bird whose pinions quake,
But cannot fly the gazing snake,

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,
And when he doth 'tis sad to see
That he but mocks at misery.

How that pale lip will curl and quiver!
Then fix once more as if for ever;
As if his sorrow or disdain
Forbade him e'er to smile again.
Well were it so such ghastly mirth
From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth.
But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face:
Time hath not yet the features fix'd,
But brighter traits with evil mix'd;
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded:
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;
The close observer can espy

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,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is riveted.
The roofless cot decayed and rent,
Will scarce delay the passer by;
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye;

Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,

Pleads haughtily for glories gone!