XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 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 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, 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 unterstand, That in such gaps as desolation work'd, There the hot shaft shoult blast whatever therein lurk'd. XCVI. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! Of what in me is sleepless, if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, could I wreak With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. XCVIII. The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incence, and with cheek all bloom, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. XCIX. Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place 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 sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought 22 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. C. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower CI. All things are here of him; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude, CII. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd and many coloured 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. CIII. 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, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 'tis his nature to advance or die; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity! |