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Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too


Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year.

Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! There can be no farewell to scene like thine;

The mind is color'd by thy every hue;
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely

"T is with the thankful heart of parting praise;

More mighty spots may rise, more glar ing shine,

But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft, the glories of old days,

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The race of life becomes a hopeless flight

To those who walk in darkness: on the


The boldest steer but where their ports invite ;

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.

Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Khone,
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth

A fair but froward infant her own care,
Kissing its cries away as these awake;-
Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd
to inflict or bear?

I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me; and to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the

Of human cities torture: I can see
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Class'd among creatures, when the soul
can flee,

And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain

Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life:
I look upon the peopled desert past,
As on a place of agony and strife,
Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was

To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring,

Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast

Which it would cope with, on delighted wing,

Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free

From what it hates in this degraded form,

Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm-When elements to elements conform, And dust is as it should be, shall I not


Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?

The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot?

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?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? should I not con-

All objects, if compared with these? and stem

A tide of suffering, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm

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 To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One, whose dust was once all fire.

A native of the land where I respire

The clear air for a while-a passing guest
Where he became a being,--whose desire
Was to be glorious; 't was a foolish

The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed

all rest.

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But of ideal beauty, which became
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distemper'd
though it seems.

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this
Invested her with all that's wild and

This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss
Which every morn his fever'd lip would


From hers, 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 selfsought 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 phrensied,-wherefore, who may know?

Since cause might be which skill could never find;

But he was phrensied by disease or woe, To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.

For then he was inspired, and from him


As from the Pythian's mystic cave of

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And this is in the night :-Most glorious night!

Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric


And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!

And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,

As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted

In hate, whose mining depths so inter


That they can meet no more, though broken-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 themselves 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,

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 what ever therein lurk'd.

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

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