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Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too

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

the year.

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

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

Rhine! '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,

May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquer'd on

that plain; Here Burgundy bequeath'd bis tomb

less host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument; - the

Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd

each wandering ghost. While Waterloo with Canna's carnage

vies, Morat and Marathon twin names shall

stand ; They were true Glory's stainless vic

tories, Won by the unambitious heart and

hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely Of vice-entail'd Corruption; they no

land Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of

laws Making kings' rights divine, by some

Draconic clause.


The negligently grand, the fruitful

bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's

sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's

gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls

between, The wild rocks shaped as they had

turrets been, In mockery of man's art ; and these

withal A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though

Empires near them fall.

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A gray and grief-worn as

ect of old days ; 'T is the last remnant of the wreck of

years, And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd

gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, Yet still with consciousness; and there

it stands Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands, Levell’d Adventicum,1 bath strew'd ber

subject lands.

But these recede. Above me are the

Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy

scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche - the thunderbolt of

snow ! All that expands the spirit, yet appalls, Gather around these summits, as to

show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet

leave vain man below.

And there--oh! sweet and sacred be

the name ! Julia---the daughter, the devoted-gare Her youth to Heaven; her heart, be

neath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's

grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers

would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was

just, And then she died on him she could

not save. 1 The Roman capital of Helvetia ; now Aved ches.

But ere these matchless heights I dare

to scan, There is a spot should not be pass'd in

vain, Morat! the proud, the patriot field !

where man


Their tomb was simple, and without The race of life becomes a hopeless a bust,

flight And held within their urn one mind, To those who walk in darkness : on the one heart, one dust.

Tho boldest steer but where their ports But these are deeds which should not

invite; pass away,

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity And names that must not wither, Whose bark drives on and on, and though the earth

anchor'd ne'er shall be. Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved, their Is it not better, then, to be alone, death and birth;

And love Earth only for its earthly sake? The high, the mountain-majesty of worth By the blue rushing of the arrow'y lihone, Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, And from its immortality look forth Which feeds it as a mother who doth In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine

make snow,

A fair but froward infant her own care, Imperishably pure beyond all things Kissing its cries away as these awake ;below.

Is it not better thus our lives to wear,

Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd Lake Leman woos me with its crystal

to inflict or bear? face, The mirror where the stars and moun- I live not in myself, but I become tains view

Portion of that around me; and to me The stillness of their aspect in each trace High mountains are a feeling, but the Its clear depth yields of their far

hum height and hue ;

Of human cities torture : I can see There is too much of man here, to look Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be through

A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, With a fit mind the might which I Class' d among creatures, when the soul behold;

can flee, But soon in me shall Loneliness renew And with the sky, the peak, the heaving Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd

plain than of old,

Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd

in vain. me in their fold.

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : To fly from, need not be to hate, man- I look upon the peopled desert past, kind :

As on a place of agony and strise, All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was Nor is it discontent to keep the mind

cast, Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil To act and suffer, but remount at last In the hot throng, where we become With a fresli pinion ; which I feel to the spoil

spring, Of our infection, till too late and long Though young, yet waxing vigorous as We may deplore and struggle with the

the blast coil,

Which it would cope with, on de. In wretched interchange of wrong for lighted wing, wrong

Spurning the clay-cold bonds which Midst a contentious world, striving round our being cling. where none are strong.

And when, at length, the mind shall be There, in a moment we may plunge our

all free

From what it hates in this degraded In fatal penitence, and in the blight

form, Of our own soul turn all our blood to Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be tears,

Existent happier in the fly and worm-And color things to come with hues When elements to elements conform, of Night;

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 vleep in my heart With a pure passion ? should I not con

temn 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

quest, The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed

all rest. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild

Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first

drew The breath which made him wretched ;

yet lie knew How to make madness beautiful and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heav

enly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as

they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel

ingly and fast. His love was passion's essence:-as a treo On fire by lightning, witli ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our

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

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

greet, From liers, who but with friendship his

would meet ; But to that gentle touch tiroligh brain

and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devour:

ing heat; In that absorbing sigh perchance inore

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 Hadd grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and

chose, For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, Gainst whom le raged with fury strange

and blind. But he was plirensied, -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

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 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 fol

lows o'ergrown fears? They made themselves a fearful monu

ment! The wreck of old opinions -- things

which grew,

no more:



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And silent, as we stand in thoughts too

deep :All heaven and earth are still: From the

high host
Of stars, to the lullid lake and moun-

tain coast,
All is concenter'd in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But bath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and de-


Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone ;
A truth, which through our being then

doth melt,
And purifies from self: it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which

makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty :

't would disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial

power to harm. Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places, and the peak of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and

thus take A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are

weak, Uprear'd of human bands. Come, and

Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or

With Nature's realms of worship, earth

and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe

thy prayer!
The sky is changed !-and such a change!

Oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are won-

drous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the

light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags

among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one

lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found

a tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty

Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her

And this is in the night :-Most glorious

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 hilly shakes with its moun

tain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth

quake'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

vene, 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 them

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, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand

to hand, Flashing and cast around; of all the

The brightest through these parted hills

bath forka
His lightnings,-as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation work’d,
There the bot 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 Things that have made me watchful;


the far roll

may be

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