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Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest. But where of ye, o tempests! is the

goal ? Are ye like those within the human

breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles,

some high nest ? Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,-could

I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus

throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings,

strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I

seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe

into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I

would speak; But as it is, I live aud die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheath

ing it as a sword.

Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are

trod, Undying Love's, who here ascends a

throne To which the steps are mountains ;

where the god Is a pervading life and light,-so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest ; o'er the

flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath

blown, His soft and summer breath, whose

tender power Passes the strength of storms in their.

most desolate hour.

All things are here of him ; from the

black pines, Which are his shade on higli, and the

loud 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, 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 ;

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, And glowing into day : we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may

find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause,

if pon'der'd fittingly. Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birthplace of

deep Love ! Thine air is the young breath of pas

sionate thought; Thy trees take root in Love; the snows

above The very Glaciers have his colors

caught, And sunset into rose-hues sees them

wrought 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,

A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd and many color el

things, Who worship him with notes more sweet

than words, And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life : the gusle 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 ono

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,

204

And the world's waste, bave driven him

far from those, For 't is bis 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! ’T was not for fiction chose Rousseau

this spot, Peopling it with affections; but he found It was the scene which Passion must allot To the mind's purified beings; it was the

ground Where early Love his Psyche's zone

unbound, And hallow'd it with loveliness; 't is lone, And wonderful, and deep, and liath a

sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here

the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps

have reard a throne.

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, wbich

grew from fear, And doom'd him to the zealot's ready

Hell, Which answers to all doubts so elo

quently well. Yet, peace be with their ashes,--for by

them, If merited, the penalty is paid ; It is not ours to judge, -far less con

demn; 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

lie decay'd ; And when it shall revive, as is our

trust, 'T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what

is just.

Lausanne ! and Ferney! ye have been

the abodes Of names which unto you bequeatlı’d

a name; Mortals, who sought and found, by

dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame : They were gigantic minds, and their

steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down

thunder, and the flame Of Heaven again assaild, if Heaven the

while On man and man's research could deign

do more than smile,

The one 1 was fire and fickleness, a child
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind
A wit as various,-gay, grave, sage, or

wild, -
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ;
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents:But his own
Breathed mnost in ridicule,-whichi, as

the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things

prone,Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to

shake a throne.

But let me quit man's works, again to

read His Maker's, spread around me, and

suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps

tend, And I must pierce them, and survey

whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region,

where The earth to her embrace compels the

powers of air. Italia! too, Italia ! looking on thee, Full flashes on the soul the light of ages. Since the fierce Carthaginian almost

won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; Thou wert the throne and grave of

empires ; still, The fount at which the panting mind

assuages

The other, a deep and slow, exhausting

thought,

1 Voltaire

Gibbon.

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our

tend;

Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there

her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's

imperial hill. Thus far have I 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, What a proud caution, love, or hate, or

aught, Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or

zeal,Which is the tyrant spirit of

thought, Is a stern task of soul :-No matter,-it

is taught. And for these words, thus woven into

song, it may be that they are a barmless

wile,The coloring of the scenes which fleet

along, Which I would seize, in passing, to be

guile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am

not So young as to regard men's frown or

smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot: I stood and stand alone,--remember'd or

forgot. I have not loved the world, nor the world

me, I have not flatter'd its rauk breath, nor

bow'd To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried

aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such ; I

stood Among them, but not of them ; in a

shroud Of thoughts which were not their

thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus

itself subdued.

Albeit my brow thou never shouldst

behold, My voice shall with thy future visions

blend, And reach into thy heart, when mine is

cold, A token and a tone, even from thy

father's mould.

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I have not loved the world, nor the world

me, But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that

there may be

And an attainment, -all would be in

vain,Still thou wouldst love me, still that

more than life retain.

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The child of love, though born in bit

terness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, and thine no

less. As yet such are around thee, but thy fire Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope

far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er

the sea And from the inountains where I now

respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon

thee, As with a sigh, I deem thou might'st

have been to me. May-June, 1816. November 18, 1816.

SONNET ON CHILLON.

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons. Liberty! thouart, For there thy habitation is the heartThe heart which love of thee alone can

bind ; And when thy sons to fetters are con

sign'dTo fetters, and the damp vault's dayless

gloom, Their country conquers with their mar

tyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on

every wind. Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar-for 't was

trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement werea sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks

efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.

June, 1816. December 5, 1816.

To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd-forbidden fare:
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'd chains and courted death;
That father perish'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven-who now are one,

Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish'd as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage; One in fire, and two in field Their belief with blood have seald, Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied ; Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns, massy and

gray, Dim withi a dull imprison'd ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left; Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp: And in each pillar there is a ring,

And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering thing,

For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years—I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score, When my last brother droop'd and died And I lay living by his side. They chain'd us each to a colunin stone And we were three-yet, each alone, We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other's face, But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight: And thus together-yet apart, Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 'T was still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope, or legend old Or song heroically bold ; But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of the dungeon stone,

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

My hair is gray, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with

toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil,

And mine has been the fate of those

A grating sound, not full and free, As they of yore were wont to be ;

It might be fancy, but to me They never sounded like our own.

Wash though the bars when winds were

high And wanton in the happy sky;

And then the very rock hath rock'd,

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.

I was the eldest of the three,

And to uphold and cheer the rest

I ought to do-and did my bestAnd each did well in his degree.

The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven

For him my soul was sorely moved ; And truly might it be distress'd To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day

(When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free)

A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone,

Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun :

And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others' ills, And then they flow'd like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below.

The other was as pure of mind,
But form’d to combat with his kind ;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war bad

stood,
And perish'd in the foremost rank

With joy :--but not in chains to pine : His spirit wither'd with their clank,

I saw it silently decline

And so perchance in sooth did mine: But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills,

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf;

To him bis dungeon was a gull, And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : A thousand feet in depth below Its mazsy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement,

Which round about the wave inthrals : A double dungeon wall and wave Have made-and like a living grave Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day ;

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; And I have felt the winter's spray

I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 'twas coarse aud rude,
For we were used to lnunter's fare,
And for the like had little care :
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moisten'd many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow men
Like brutes within an iron den ;
But what were these to us or him ?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother's soul was of that mould
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain's side;
But why delay the truth ?-lie died.
I saw, and could not hold his head,
Nor reach his dying hand-nor dead. -
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died, and they unlock'd his chain,
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave,
I begg'd them as a boon tilay
His corse in dust whereou „he day
Might shine--it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer-
They coldly laugh'd, and laid him there.
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love ;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument!
But he, the favorite and the flower,
Most cherish'd since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyr'd father's dearest thought
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired-
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was wither'd on the stalk away.

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