Fashion's pining sons and daughters, That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling, they approach thy waters; And what cares Nature, if they die? Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking,) A blessed shadow of this Earth! O ye hopes, that stir within me, III. MEDITATIVE POEMS IN BLANK VERSE. "Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived, HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. Besides the rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue." AST thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC! Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing-there As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstacy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale! Ör when they climb the sky or when they sink: And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded (and the silence came), Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Slow-travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 162 Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE STOOD on Brocken's* sovran height, and saw Woods crowding upon woods, hills over A surging scene, and only limited. By the blue distance. Heavily my way Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North |