LXXII.

I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me; and to me,
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture: I can see
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can
flee,

And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.

LXXIII.

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life:
I look upon the peopled desert past,
As on a place of agony and strife,
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,
To act and suffer, but remount at last
With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring,
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the
blast

Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.

LXXIV.

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
From what it hates in this degraded form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm,--
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be, shall I not

Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?

LXXV.

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 turned below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?

LXXYL.

But this is not my theme; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for awhile--a passing guest, Where he became a being,-whose desire Was to be glorious: 'twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest.

LXXVII.

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rous

seau,

The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew

And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refill'd,

knew

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, 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.

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, O tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?

XCVIL

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, 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

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 Leman may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.

XCIX.

Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace 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 colours 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

In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.