Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man | The stillness of their aspect in each trace May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Its clear depth yields of their far height and Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain; coast hue: There is too much of man here, to look Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each Nor is it discontent to keep the mind There, in a moment, we may plunge our years The race of life becomes a hopeless flight Is it not better, then, to be alone, I live not in myself, but I become And with the sky, the peak, the heaving And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, | Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, Which it would cope with, on delighted And when, at length, the mind shall be Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them? Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? But this is not my theme; and I return all rest. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rous seau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they His love was passion's essence as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, it seems. This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet From her's, who but with friendship his would meet; But to that gentle touch through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banish'd; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice the kind, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But he was phrenzied,-wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which skill could never find; But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: Did he not this for France? which lay before Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years, Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown fears. They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions-things which grew Breathed from the birth of time: the veil As heretofore, because ambition was selfwill'd. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured | Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven, They were not eagles,nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The heart's bleed longest and but heal to A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy The sky is changed!—and such a change! And storm, and darkness, ye are wond'rous Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone But every mountain now hath found a And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, aloud! parted Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe-into But as it is, I live and die unheard, 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,— room In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep 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 them-Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above The very Glaciers have his colours caught, And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought selves 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, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne Is a pervading life and light,—so shown His soft and summer breath, whose tender Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. All things are here of him; from the black roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more, For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; The lord of irony,- that master-spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. Yet, peace be with their ashes,-for by them, And the world's waste, have driven him far If merited, the penalty is paid; For 'tis his nature to advance or die; It is not ours to judge,-far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all,—or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow,—in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lic decay'd; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. But let me quit man's works, again to read Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. Thus far I have proceeded in a theme Renew'd with no kind auspices:-to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be,- and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— |