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But hath a part of being, and a sense
XC. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt And purifies from self: it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty ;-'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
XCI. Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, (20) and thus take A fit and unwallid temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, Upreard of human hands. Come, and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray’r!
XCII. The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night,(21) And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is 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 !
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
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 thunder-bolts 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, 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 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.
And food for meditation, nor pass by
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
Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.