ll as brave.
\r\n
\r\n49
\r\nIn their baronial [feuds] and single fields,
\r\nWhat deed of prowess unrecorded died!
\r\nAnd Love, which lent a blazon to their shields,
\r\nWith emblems well devised by amorous pride,
\r\nThrough all the mail of iron hearts would glide;
\r\nBut still their flame was fierceness, and drew on
\r\nKeen contest and destruction near allied,
\r\nAnd many a tower for some fair mischief won,
\r\nSaw the discoloured [Rhine] beneath its ruin run.
\r\n
\r\n50
\r\nBut Thou, exulting and abounding river!
\r\nMaking thy waves a blessing as they flow
\r\nThrough banks whose beauty would endure for ever
\r\nCould man but leave thy bright creation so,
\r\nNor its fair promise from the surface mow
\r\nWith the sharp scythe of conflict,--then to see
\r\nThy valley of sweet waters, were to know
\r\nEarth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me
\r\nEven now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be.
\r\n
\r\n51
\r\nA thousand battles have assail'd thy banks,
\r\nBut these and half their fame have pass'd away,
\r\nAnd [Slaughter] heap'd on high his weltering ranks;
\r\nTheir very graves are gone, band what are they?
\r\nThy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday,
\r\nAnd all was stainless, and on thy clear stream
\r\nGlass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray;
\r\nBut o'er the blackened memory's blighting dream
\r\nThy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.
\r\n
\r\n52
\r\nThus Harold inly said, and pass'd along,
\r\nYet not insensibly to all which here
\r\nAwoke the jocund birds to early song
\r\nIn glens which might have made even exile dear:
\r\nThough on his brow were graven lines austere,
\r\nAnd tranquil sternnes which had ta'en the place
\r\nOf feelings fierier far but less severe,
\r\nJoy was not always absent from his face,
\r\nBut o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace.
\r\n
\r\n53
\r\nNor was all love shut from him, though his days
\r\nOf passion had consumed themselves to dust.
\r\nIt is in vain that we would coldly gaze
\r\nOn such as smile upon us; the heart must
\r\nLeak kindly back to kindness, though disgust
\r\nHath wean'd it from all worldlings: thus he felt,
\r\nFor there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust
\r\nIn one fond breast, to which his own would melt,
\r\nAnd in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.
\r\n
\r\n54
\r\nAnd he had learn'd to love,--I know not why,
\r\nFor this in such as him seems strange of mood,--
\r\nThe helpless looks of blooming infancy,
\r\nEven in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
\r\nTo change like this, a mind so far imbued
\r\nWith scorn of man, it little boots to know;
\r\nBut thus it was; and though in solitude
\r\nSmall power the nipp'd affections have to grow,
\r\nIn him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.
\r\n
\r\n55
\r\nAnd there was one soft breast, as hath been said,
\r\nWhich unto his was bound by stronger ties
\r\nThan [the church] links withal; and, though unwed,
\r\nThat love was pure, and, far above disguise,
\r\nHad stood the test of mortal enmities
\r\nStill undivided, and cemented more
\r\nBy [peril], dreaded most in female eyes;
\r\nBut this was firm, and from a foreign shore
\r\nWell to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!
\r\n
\r\n

1
\r\n

The castled crag of [Drachenfels]
\r\n

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
\r\n

Whose breast of waters broadly swells
\r\n

Between the banks which bear the vine,
\r\n

And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
\r\n

And fields which promise corn and wine,
\r\n

And scattered cities crowning these,
\r\n

Whose far white walls along them shine,
\r\n

Have strewed a scene, which I should see
\r\n

With double joy were thou with me!
\r\n
\r\n

2
\r\n

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
\r\n

And hand which offer early flowers,
\r\n

Walk smiling o'er this paradise
\r\n

Above, the frequent feudal towers
\r\n

Through green leaves lift their walls of grey,
\r\n

And many a rock which steeply lours,
\r\n

And noble arch in proud decay,
\r\n

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
\r\n

But one thing want these banks of Rhine,--
\r\n

[Thy gentle hand] to clasp in mine!
\r\n
\r\n

3
\r\n

I send the lillies given to me;
\r\n

Though long before thy hand they touch,
\r\n

I know that they must withered be,
\r\n

But yet reject them not as such;
\r\n

For I have cherish'd them as dear,
\r\n

Because they yet may meet thine eye,
\r\n

And guide thy sould to mine even here,
\r\n

When thou behold'st them drooping night,
\r\n

And knowst them gathered by the Rhine,
\r\n

And offered [from my heart] to thine!
\r\n
\r\n

4
\r\n

The river nobly foams and flows,
\r\n

The charm of this enchanted ground,
\r\n

And all its thousand turns disclose
\r\n

Some fresher beauty varying round;
\r\n

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
\r\n

Through life to dwell delighted here;
\r\n

Nor could on earth a spot be found
\r\n

To nature and to me so dear,
\r\n

Could thy dear eyes in following mine
\r\n

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

\r\n
\r\n56
\r\nBy Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground,
\r\nThere is a small and simply [pyramid],
\r\nCrowning the summit of the [the grassy knoll|verdant mound];
\r\nBeneath its base are heroes' ashes hid,
\r\nOur enemy's,--but let not that forbid
\r\nHonour to [Marceau]! o'er whose early tomb
\r\nTears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid,
\r\nLamenting and yet envying such a doom,
\r\nFalling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.
\r\n
\r\n57
\r\nBrief, brave, and glorious was his young career,--
\r\nHis mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes;
\r\nAnd fitly may the stranger lingering here
\r\nPray for his gallant spirit's bright repose;
\r\nFor he was Freedom's champion, one of those,
\r\nThe few in number, who had not o'erstept
\r\nThe charter to chastise which she bestows
\r\nOn such as wield her weapons; he had kept
\r\n[The whiteness of his soul], and thus men o'er him wept.
\r\n
\r\n58
\r\nHere [Ehrenbreitstein], with her shattered wall
\r\nBlack with the miner's blast, upon her height
\r\nYet shows of what she was, when shell and ball
\r\nRebounding idly on her strength did light;
\r\nA tower of victory! from whence the flight
\r\nOf baffled foes was watch'd along the plain:
\r\nBut Peace destroy'd what War could never blight,
\r\nAnd laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain--
\r\nOn which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain.
\r\n
\r\n59
\r\nAdieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted
\r\nThe stranger fain would linger on his way!
\r\nThine is a scene alike where souls united
\r\nOr lonely Contemplation thus might stray;
\r\nAnd could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey
\r\nOn self-condemning bosoms, it were here,
\r\nWhere Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay,
\r\nWild but not rude, awful yet not austere,
\r\nIs to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year.
\r\n
\r\n60
\r\nAdieu to thee again! a vain adieu!
\r\nThere can be found no farewell to scene like thine;
\r\nThe mind is coloured by thy every hue;
\r\nAnd if reluctantly the eyes resign
\r\nTheir cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!
\r\n'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise;
\r\nMore mighty spots may rise--more glaring shine,
\r\nBut none unite in one attaching maze
\r\nThe brilliant, fair, and soft,--[the glories of old days],
\r\n
\r\n61
\r\nThe negligently grand, the fruitful bloom
\r\nOf coming ripeness, the white city's sheen,
\r\nThe rolling stream, the precipice's gloom,
\r\nThe forest's growth, and [Gothic]'s walls between,
\r\nThe wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
\r\nIn mockery of man's art; and these withal
\r\nA race of faces happy as the scene,
\r\nWhose fertile bounties extend to all,
\r\nStill sprining o'er thy banks, though Empires near them fall.
\r\n
\r\n62
\r\nBut these recede. Above me are the Alps,
\r\nThe palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
\r\nHave pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
\r\nAnd throned Eternity in icy halls
\r\nOf cold sublimity, where forms and falls
\r\nThe [avalanche]--the [thunderbolt] of snow!
\r\nAll which expands the spirit, yet appals,
\r\nGather around these summits, as to show
\r\nHow Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
\r\n
\r\n63
\r\nBut ere these matchless heights I dare to scan,
\r\nThere is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,--
\r\nMorat! the proud, [the patriot field]! where man
\r\nMay gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,
\r\nNor blush for those who conquered on that plain;
\r\nHere Burgundy bequeath'd his [tomb]less host,
\r\nA bony heap, through ages to remain,
\r\nThemselves their monument;--the [Stygian] coast
\r\nUnsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost.
\r\n
\r\n64
\r\nWhile Waterloo with [Cannae]'s carnage vies,
\r\n[Morat] and [Marathon] twin names shall stand;
\r\nThey were true Glory's stainless victories,
\r\nWon by the unambitious heart and hand
\r\nOf a proud, brotherly, and civic band,
\r\nAll unbought champions in no princely cause
\r\nOf vice-entail'd [Corruption]; they no land
\r\nDoom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws
\r\nMaking kings' rights divine, by some [Draconic] clause.
\r\n
\r\n65
\r\nBy a lone wall a lonelier column rears
\r\nA gray and grief-worn aspect of old days,
\r\n'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,
\r\nAnd looks as with the wild-bewildered gaze
\r\nOf one to stone converted by amaze,
\r\nYet still with consciousness; and there it stands
\r\nMaking a marvel that it not decays,
\r\nWhen the coeval pride of human hands,
\r\nLevell'd [Aventicum], hath strewed her subject lands.
\r\n
\r\n66
\r\nAnd there--oh! sweet and sacred be the name!--
\r\n[Julia]--the daughter, the devoted--gave
\r\nHer youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim
\r\nNearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave.
\r\n[Justice] is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave
\r\nThe life she lived in; but the judge was just,
\r\nAnd then she died on him she could not save.
\r\nTheir tomb was simple, and without a bust,
\r\nAnd held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.
\r\n
\r\n67
\r\nBut these are deeds which should not ass away,
\r\nAnd names that must not wither, though the earth
\r\nForgets her empires with a just decay,
\r\nThe enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;
\r\nThe high, the mountain-majesty of worth
\r\nShould be, and shall, survivor of its woe,
\r\nAnd from its immortality look forth
\r\nIn the sun's face, like yonder [Alpine] snow;
\r\nImperishably pure beyond all things below.
\r\n
\r\n68
\r\nLake Leman woos me with its crystal face,
\r\nThe mirror where the stars and mountains view
\r\nThe stillness of their aspect in each trace
\r\nIts clear depth yields of their far height and hue:
\r\nThere is too much of man here, to look through
\r\nWith a fit mindt he might which I behold;
\r\nBut soon in me shall [Loneliness] renew
\r\nThoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old,
\r\nEre mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold.
\r\n
\r\n69
\r\nTo fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;
\r\nAll are not fit with them to stire and toil,
\r\nNor is it discontent to keep the mind
\r\nDeep in its fountain, lest it overvoil
\r\nIn the hot throng, where we become the spoil
\r\nOf our infection, till too late and long
\r\nWe may deplore and struggle with the coil,
\r\nIn wretched interchange of wrong for wrong
\r\n'Midst a [contentious world], striving where none are strong.
\r\n
\r\n70
\r\nThere, in a moment, we may plunge our years
\r\nIn fatal penitence, and in the blight
\r\nOf our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
\r\nAnd colour things to come with hues of Night;
\r\nThe race of life becomes a hopeless flight
\r\nTo those that walk in darkness: on the sea,
\r\nThe boldest steer but where their ports invite,
\r\nBut there are wanderers o'er Eternity
\r\nWhose bark drives on and one, and anchored ne'er shall be.
\r\n
\r\n71
\r\nIs it not better, then, to be alone,
\r\nAnd love Earth only for its earthly sake?
\r\nBy the blue rushing of the arroy [Rhone],
\r\nOr the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
\r\nWhich feeds it as a mother who doth make
\r\nA fair but froward infant her own care,
\r\nKissing its cries away as these awake;--
\r\nIs it not better thus our lives to wear,
\r\nThan join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear?
\r\n
\r\n72
\r\nI live not in myself, but I become
\r\nPortion of that around me; and to me
\r\nHigh mountains are a feeling, but the hum
\r\nOf human cities torture: I can see
\r\nNothing to loathe in nature, save to be
\r\nA link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
\r\nClass'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,
\r\nAnd with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
\r\nOf ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
\r\n
\r\n73
\r\nAnd thus I am absorb'd, and this is life:
\r\nI look upon the peopled desart past,
\r\nAs on a place of agony and strife,
\r\nWhere, for some sin, [to Sorrow I was cast],
\r\nTo act and suffer, but remount at last
\r\nWith a fresh [pinion]; which I feel to spring,
\r\nThough young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast
\r\nWhich it would cope with, on delighted wing,
\r\nSpurning the clay-cold bonds with round our being cling.
\r\n
\r\n74
\r\nAnd when, at length, the mind shall all be free
\r\nFrom what it hates in this degraded form,
\r\nReft of its [carnal] life, save what shall be
\r\nExistent happier in the fly and worm,--
\r\nWhen elements to elements conform,
\r\nAnd dust is as it should be, shall I note
\r\nFeel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?
\r\nThe bodiless thought? the [Spirit] of each spot?
\r\nOf which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?
\r\n
\r\n75
\r\nAre not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
\r\nOf me and of my soul, as I of them?
\r\nIs not the love of these deep in my heart
\r\nWith a pure passion? should I not contemn
\r\nAll objects, if compared with these? and stem
\r\nA tide of suffering, rather than forego
\r\nSuch feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
\r\nOf those whose eyes are only turn'd below,
\r\nGazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?
\r\n
\r\n76
\r\nBut this is not my theme; and I return
\r\nTo that which is immediate, and require
\r\nThose who find contemplation in the urn,
\r\nTo look on [One whose dust was once all fire],
\r\nA native of the land where I respire
\r\nThe clear air for a while--a passing guest,
\r\nWhere he became a being,--whose desire
\r\nWas to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest,
\r\nThe which to gain and keep, he [sacrificed] all rest.
\r\n
\r\n77
\r\nHere the self-torturing sophist, wild [Rousseau],
\r\nThe apostle of affliction, he who threw
\r\nEnchantment over passion, and from woe
\r\nWrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
\r\nThe breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
\r\nHow to make madness beautiful, and cast
\r\nO'er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly hue
\r\nOf words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past
\r\nThe eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.
\r\n
\r\n78
\r\nHis love was passion's essence--as a tree
\r\nOn fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
\r\nKindled he was, and blasted; for to be
\r\nThus, and enamoured, were in him the same.
\r\nBut his was not the love of living dame,
\r\nNor of the dead who rise upon our dreams
\r\nBut of ideal beauty, which became
\r\nIn him existence, and o'erflowering teems
\r\nAlong his burning page, distempered though it seems
\r\n
\r\n79
\r\nThis breathed itself to life in Júlie, this
\r\nInvested her with all that's wild and sweet;
\r\nThis hallowed, too, the memorable kiss
\r\nWhich every morn his fevered lip would greet,
\r\nFrom hers, who but with friendship his would meet;
\r\nBut to that [gentle touch], through brain and breast
\r\nFlash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat;
\r\nIn that absorbing sigh perchance more blest,
\r\nThan [vulgar minds] may be with all they sek possest.
\r\n
\r\n80
\r\nHis life was one long war with self-sought foes,
\r\nOr friends by him self-banish'd; for his mind
\r\nHad grown [Suspicion]'s sanctuary, and chose
\r\nFor its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,
\r\n'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.
\r\nBut he was [frenzied|phrenzied],--wherefore, who may know?
\r\nSince cause might be which skill could never find;
\r\nBut he was phrenzied by [disease] or woe,
\r\nTo that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.
\r\n
\r\n81
\r\nFor then he was inspired, and from him came,
\r\nAs from the [Pythian]'s mystic cave of your,
\r\nThose oracles which set the world in flame,
\r\nNor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more:
\r\nDid he not this for France? which lay before
\r\nBowed to the [inborn tyranny] of years?
\r\nBroken and trembling, to the yoke she bore,
\r\nTill by the voice of him and his compeers,
\r\nRoused up too much wrath which follows o'ergrown fears?
\r\n
\r\n82
\r\nThey made themselves a fearful monument!
\r\nThe wreck of old opinions--things which grew
\r\nBreathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent,
\r\nAnd what behind it lay, all earth shall view.
\r\nBut good with ill they also overthrew,
\r\nLeaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
\r\nUpon the same foundation, and renew
\r\nDungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd,
\r\nAs heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd.
\r\n
\r\n83
\r\nBut this will not endure, nor be endured!
\r\nMankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.
\r\nThey might have used it better, but, allured
\r\nBy their new vigour, sternly have they dealt
\r\nOn one another; pity ceased to melt
\r\nWith her once natural charities. But they,
\r\nWho in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt,
\r\nThey were not eagles, nourish'd with the day;
\r\nWhat marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?
\r\n
\r\n84
\r\nWhat deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
\r\nThe heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
\r\nThat which disfigures it; and they who war
\r\nWith their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear
\r\nSilence, but not submission: in his lair
\r\nFix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour
\r\nWhich shall atone for years; none need despair:
\r\nIt came, it cometh, and will come,--the power
\r\nTo punish or forgive--in one we shall be slower.
\r\n
\r\n85
\r\nClear, placid [Leman]! thy contrasted lake,
\r\nWith the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
\r\nWhich warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
\r\nEarth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
\r\nThis quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
\r\nTo waft me from distraction; once I loved
\r\nTorn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
\r\nSounds sweet as if [augusta leigh|a sister's] voice reproved,
\r\nThat I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.
\r\n
\r\n86
\r\nIt is the hush of night, and all between
\r\nThy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
\r\nMellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
\r\nSave darken'd [isle of jura|Jura], whose capt heights appear
\r\nPrecipitously steep; and drawing near,
\r\nThere breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
\r\nOf flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
\r\nDrops the light drip of the suspended oar,
\r\nOr chirps the [grasshopper] one good-night carol more;
\r\n
\r\n87
\r\nHe is an evening reveller, who makes
\r\nHis life an infancy, and sings his fill;
\r\nAt intervals, some bird from out the brakes,
\r\nStarts into voice a moment, then is still.
\r\nThere seems a floating whisper on the hill,
\r\nBut that is fancy, for the starlight dews
\r\nAll silently their tears of love instil,
\r\nWeeping themselves away, till they infuse
\r\nDeep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
\r\n
\r\n88
\r\nYe stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
\r\nIf in your bright leaves we would read the fate
\r\nOf men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven,
\r\nThat in our aspirations to be great,
\r\nOur destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
\r\nAnd claim a kindred with you; for ye are
\r\nA beauty and a mystery, and create
\r\nIn us such love and reverence from afar,
\r\nThat fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a [star].
\r\n
\r\n89
\r\nAll heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep,
\r\nBut breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
\r\nAnd silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:--
\r\nAll heaven and earth are still: From the high host
\r\nOf stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
\r\nAll is concentered in a life intense,
\r\nWhere not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
\r\nBut hath a part of beings, and a sense
\r\nOf that which is of all Creator and defence.
\r\n
\r\n90
\r\nThen stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
\r\nIn solitude, where we are least alone;
\r\nA truth, which through our being then doth melt
\r\nAnd purifies from self: it is a tone,
\r\nThe soul and source of music, which makes known
\r\nEternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
\r\nLike to the fabled [Cytherea]'s zone,
\r\nBinding all things with beauty;--'twould disarm
\r\nThe spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
\r\n
\r\n91
\r\nNot vainly did the early [Persia]n make
\r\nHis altar the high places and the peak
\r\nOf earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take
\r\nA fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
\r\nThe Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
\r\nUprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare
\r\nColumns and idol-dwellings, [Goth] or [Greek],
\r\nWith Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
\r\nNor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!
\r\n
\r\n92
\r\nThe sky is changed!--and such a change! Oh night,
\r\nAnd storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
\r\nYet lovely in your strength, as is the light
\r\nOf a dark eye in woman! Far along,
\r\nFrom peak to peak, the rattling crags among
\r\nLeaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
\r\nBut every mountain now hath found a tongue,
\r\nAnd Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
\r\nBack to the joyous [Alps], who call to her aloud!
\r\n
\r\n93
\r\nAnd this is in the night:--Most glorious night!
\r\nThou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
\r\nA sharer in thy fierce and far delight,--
\r\nA portion of the tempest and of thee!
\r\nHow the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
\r\nAnd the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
\r\nAnd now again 'tis black,--and now, the glee
\r\nOf the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
\r\nAs if they did rejoice o'er a young [earthquake]'s birth.
\r\n
\r\n94
\r\nNow, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
\r\nHeights which appear as lovers who have parted
\r\nIn hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
\r\nThat they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
\r\nThough in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
\r\nLove was the very root of the [fond rage]
\r\nWhich blighted their life's bloom, and then departed:--
\r\nItself expired, but leaving them an age
\r\nOf years all winters,--[war within] themselves to wage.
\r\n
\r\n95
\r\nNow, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
\r\nThe mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand:
\r\nFor here, not one, but many, make their play,
\r\nAnd fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,
\r\nFlashinig and cast around: of all the band,
\r\nThe brightest throught these parted hills hath fork'd
\r\nHis lightnings,--as if he did understand,
\r\nThat in such gaps as desolation work'd,
\r\nThere the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.
\r\n
\r\n96
\r\nSky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!
\r\nWith night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
\r\nTo make these felt and feeling, well may be
\r\nThings that have made me watchful; the far rool
\r\nOf your departing voices, is the knoll
\r\nOf what in me is sleepless,--if I rest.
\r\nBut where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal?
\r\nAre ye like those within the human breast?
\r\nOr do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?
\r\n
\r\n97
\r\nCould I embody and unbosom now
\r\nThat which is most within me,--could I wreak
\r\nMy thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
\r\nSoul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
\r\nAll that I would have sought, and all I seek,
\r\nBear, know, feel, and yet breath--into one word,
\r\nAnd that one word were [Lightning], I would speak;
\r\nBut as it is, I live and die unheard,
\r\nWith a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.
\r\n
\r\n98
\r\nThe morn is up again, the dewy morn,
\r\nWith breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
\r\n[Laughing the clouds away] with playful scorn,
\r\nAnd living as if earth contain'd no tomb,--
\r\nAnd glowing into day: we may resume
\r\nThe march of our existence: and thus I,
\r\nStill on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
\r\nAnd food for meditation, nor pass by
\r\nMuch, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.
\r\n
\r\n99
\r\nClarens! sweet [Clarens], birth-place of deep Love!
\r\nThine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
\r\nThy trees take root in Love; the snows above
\r\nThe very [Glaciers] have his colours caught,
\r\nAnd sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought
\r\nBy rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,
\r\nThe permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought
\r\nIn them a refuge from the worldly shocks,
\r\nWhich stir and [sting the soul] with hope that woos, then mocks.
\r\n
\r\n100
\r\nClarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,--
\r\nUndying Love's who here ascends a throne
\r\nTo which the steps are mountains; where the god
\r\nIs a pervading life and light,--so shown
\r\nNot on those summits solely, nor alone
\r\nIn the still cave and forest: o'er the flower
\r\nHis eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown,
\r\nHis soft and summer breath, whose tender power
\r\nPasses the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.
\r\n
\r\n101
\r\nAll things are here of him; from the black pines,
\r\nWhich are his shade on high, and the loud roar
\r\nOf torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines
\r\nWhich slope his green path downward to the shore,
\r\nWhere the bowed waters meet him, and adore,
\r\n[Kissing his feet with murmurs]; and the wood,
\r\nThe covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
\r\nBut light leaves, young as joy, stands were it stood,
\r\nOffering to him, and his, [a populous solitude],
\r\n
\r\n102
\r\nA populous solitude of bees and birds,
\r\nAnd fairy form'd and many coloured things,
\r\nWho worship him with notes more sweet than words,
\r\nAnd innocently open their glad wings,
\r\nFearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
\r\nAnd fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
\r\nOf stirring brances, and the bud which brings
\r\nThe swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,
\r\nMingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.
\r\n
\r\n103
\r\nHe who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,
\r\nAnd make his heart a spirit; he who knows
\r\nThat tender mystery, will love the more,
\r\nFor this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes,
\r\nAnd [the wasteland|the world's waste], have driven him far from those,
\r\nFor 'tis his nature to advance or die;
\r\nHe stands not still, but or decays, or grows
\r\nInto a boundless blessing, which may vie
\r\nWith the immortal lights, in its eternity!
\r\n
\r\n104
\r\n'Twas not for [fiction] chose Rousseau this spot,
\r\nPeopling it with affections; but he found
\r\nIt was the scene which passio nmust allot
\r\nTo the mind's purifed beings; 'twas the ground
\r\nWhere early Love his [Psyche]'s zone unbound,
\r\nAnd hallowed it with loveliness: 'tis ne,
\r\nAnd wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,
\r\nAnd sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone
\r\nHath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne.
\r\n
\r\n105
\r\n[Lausanne]! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes
\r\nOf names which unto you bequeath'd a name;
\r\nMortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,
\r\nA path to perpetuity of fame:
\r\nThey were gigantic minds, and their steep aim,
\r\nWas, [Titan]-like, on daring doubts to pile
\r\nThoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame
\r\nOf Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while
\r\nOn man and man's research could deign to more than smile.
\r\n
\r\n106
\r\nThe one was fire and fickleness, a child,
\r\nMost [mutability|mutable] in wishes, but in mind,
\r\nA wit as various,--gay, grave, sage, or wild,--
\r\nHistorian, board, philosopher, combined;
\r\nHe multiplied himself among mankind,
\r\nThe [Proteus] of their talents: But his own
\r\nBreathed most in ridicult,--which, as the wind,
\r\nBlew where it listed, laying all things prine,--
\r\nNow to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.
\r\n
\r\n107
\r\nThe other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,
\r\nAnd hiving wisdom with each studious year,
\r\nIn meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,
\r\nAnd shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
\r\nSapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
\r\nThe lord of irony,--that master-spell,
\r\nWhich stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,
\r\nAnd doom'd him to the [zealot]'s ready [Hell],
\r\nWhich answers to all doubts so eloquently well.
\r\n
\r\n108
\r\nYet, peace be with their ashes,--for by them,
\r\nIf merited, the penalty is paid;
\r\nIt is not ours to judge,--far less condemn;
\r\nThe hour must come when such things shall be made
\r\nKnown unto all,--or hope and dread allay'd
\r\nBy slumber, on one pillow,--in the dust,
\r\nWhich, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd;
\r\nAnd when it shall revive, as is our trust,
\r\n'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.
\r\n
\r\n109
\r\nBut let me quit man's works, again to read
\r\n[His Maker]'s, spread around me, and suspend
\r\nThis page, which from my reveries I feed,
\r\nUntil it seems prolonging without end.
\r\nThe clouds above me to the white Alps tend,
\r\nAnd I must pierce them, and survey whate'er
\r\nMay be permitted, as my steps I bend
\r\nTo their most great and growing region, where
\r\nThe earth to her embrace compels [the powers of air].
\r\n
\r\n110
\r\nItalia! too, [italy|Italia]! looking on thee,
\r\nFull flashes on the soul the light of ages,
\r\nSince the fierce [carthage|Carthaginian] almost won thee,
\r\nTo the last halo of the chiefs and sages,
\r\nWho glorify thy consecrated pages;
\r\nThou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,
\r\nThe fount at which the panting mind assuages
\r\nHer thirst for knowledge, quaffing there her fill,
\r\nFlowers from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.
\r\n
\r\n111
\r\nThus far I have proceeded in a theme
\r\nRenewed with no kind auspices:--to feel
\r\nWe are not what we have been, and to deem
\r\nWe are not what we should be,--and to steel
\r\nThe heart against itself; and to conceal,
\r\nWith a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,--
\r\nPassion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal,--
\r\nWhich is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
\r\nIs a stern task of soul:--No matter,--it is taught.
\r\n
\r\n112
\r\nAnd for these words, thus woven into song,
\r\nIt may be that they are a harmless wile,--
\r\nThe colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
\r\nWhich I would seize, in passing, to beguile
\r\nMy breast, or that of others, for a while.
\r\n[Fame is the thirst of youth],--but I am not
\r\nSo young as to regard men's frown or smile,
\r\nAs loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;
\r\n[I stood and stand alone],--remembered or forgot.
\r\n
\r\n113
\r\nI have not loved the world, nor the world me;
\r\nI have not flattered its rank breath, nor bow'd
\r\nTo its idolatries a patient knee,--
\r\nNor coin'd my cheek to smiles,--nor cried aloud
\r\nIn [worship of an echo]; in the crowd
\r\nThey could not deem me one of such; I stood
\r\nAmong them, but not of them; in a shroud
\r\nOf thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
\r\nHad I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.
\r\n
\r\n114
\r\nI have not loved the world, nor the world me,--
\r\nBut [let us part fair foes]; I do believe,
\r\nThough I have found them not, that there may be
\r\nWords which are things,--hopes which will not deceive,
\r\nAnd virtues which are merciful, nor weave
\r\nSnares for the failing: I would also deem
\r\nO'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
\r\nThat two, or one, are almost what the seem,--
\r\nThat [goodness is no name, and happiness no dream].
\r\n
\r\n115
\r\n[ada lovelace|My daughter]! with thy name this song begun--
\r\nMy [ada|daughter]! with thy name thus much shall end--
\r\nI see thee not,--I hear thee not,--but none
\r\nCan be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
\r\nTo whom the shadows of far years extend:
\r\nAlbeit my brow thou never should'st behold,
\r\n[My voice shall with thy future visions blend],
\r\nAnd reach into thy heart,--when mine is cold,--
\r\nA token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.
\r\n
\r\n116
\r\nTo aid thy mind's development,--to watch
\r\nThy dawn of [little joys],--to sit and see
\r\nAlmost thy very growth,--to view thee catch
\r\nKnowledge of objects,--wonders yet to thee!
\r\nTo hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
\r\nAnd print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,--
\r\nThsi, it should seem, was not reserv'd for me;
\r\nYet this was in my nature:--as it is,
\r\nI know not what is there, yet something like to this.
\r\n
\r\n117
\r\nYet, though dull [Hate] as duty should be taught,
\r\nI know that thou wilt love me; though my name
\r\nShould be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
\r\nWith desolation,--and [a broken claim]:
\r\nThough the grave closed between us,--'twere the same,
\r\nI know that thou wilt love me; thought to drain
\r\nMy blood from out thy being, were an aim,
\r\nAnd an attainment,--all would be in vain,--
\r\nStill thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain.
\r\n
\r\n118
\r\n[The child of love],--though [born in bitterness],
\r\nAnd nurtured in convulsion,--of thy sire
\r\nThese were the elements,--and thine no less.
\r\nAs yet such are around thee,--but thy fire
\r\nShall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher.
\r\nSweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea,
\r\nAnd from the mountains where I now respire,
\r\nFain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
\r\nAs, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me! "}],"locked":0,"author":{"type":"usergroup","node_id":923653,"title":"Content Editors"},"orderlock_user":0,"softlinks":[{"title":"blue eyes","node_id":"783939","type":"e2node","hits":2,"filled":true},{"type":"e2node","filled":true,"hits":1,"title":"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage - Canto II","node_id":"1770252"},{"title":"King David","node_id":"1701245","hits":1,"filled":false,"type":"e2node"},{"type":"e2node","filled":false,"hits":1,"title":"The Divided Kingdom","node_id":"1509692"},{"filled":false,"hits":1,"type":"e2node","title":"Brunswick","node_id":"1468535"},{"filled":true,"hits":1,"type":"e2node","node_id":"1351228","title":"His magnolia walls"},{"node_id":"1262408","title":"The Six Orthodox Schools of Indian Philosophy","hits":1,"filled":true,"type":"e2node"},{"type":"e2node","hits":1,"filled":true,"title":"the great practical joke feud","node_id":"1105321"},{"title":"Robber baron","node_id":"1055722","hits":1,"filled":true,"type":"e2node"},{"type":"e2node","filled":true,"hits":1,"node_id":"679111","title":"Harold"},{"title":"Floating Dust","node_id":"625934","type":"e2node","hits":1,"filled":false},{"type":"e2node","filled":true,"hits":1,"node_id":"576824","title":"One for Sorrow"},{"title":"My Fair Lady","node_id":"560022","type":"e2node","filled":true,"hits":1},{"title":"Nature's God","node_id":"457871","type":"e2node","hits":1,"filled":true},{"node_id":"446253","title":"The day I realized what being alive was","type":"e2node","hits":1,"filled":true},{"title":"Saxon","node_id":"321944","type":"e2node","filled":true,"hits":1},{"type":"e2node","filled":true,"hits":1,"node_id":"317685","title":"Rhine"},{"title":"Chaldean","node_id":"204640","type":"e2node","hits":1,"filled":true},{"node_id":"187769","title":"Archangel","type":"e2node","hits":1,"filled":true},{"node_id":"148501","title":"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage","filled":false,"hits":1,"type":"e2node"},{"title":"contagion","node_id":"148465","hits":1,"filled":true,"type":"e2node"},{"title":"Gaul","node_id":"135236","filled":true,"hits":1,"type":"e2node"},{"hits":1,"filled":true,"type":"e2node","node_id":"106181","title":"Alexander the Great"},{"node_id":"86569","title":"Albion","filled":true,"hits":1,"type":"e2node"}],"title":"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage - Canto III","createdby":{"title":"nocodeforparanoia","node_id":551224,"type":"user"},"node_id":1770908}},"user":{"editor":false,"chanop":false,"in_room":"0","admin":false,"developer":true,"node_id":"779713","title":"Guest User","guest":true},"nodeletorder":["sign_in","recommended_reading","new_writeups"],"node":{"type":"e2node","createtime":1135055247,"node_id":"1770908","title":"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage - Canto III"}}