513 And you, ye crags, upon whose ex-. treme edge I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs In dizziness of distance; when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed To rest forever, wherefore do I pause? I feel the impulse-yet I do not plunge; I see the peril - yet do not recede; My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment, born and dying With the blest tone which made me! Ye toppling crags of ice! Yeavalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me! I hear ye momently above, beneath, Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, And only fall on things that still would live; On the young flourishing forest, or the hut And hamlet of the harmless villager. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of |