Selected Poems (84 page)

XCIII

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

870

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!
¹

How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,

And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!

875

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.

XCIV

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted

880

In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,

That they can meet no more, though brokenhearted!

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:

885

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 one, but many, make their play,

890

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,

895

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk’d.

XCVI

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

900

Of your departing voices, is the knoll

Of what in me is sleepless, – if I rest.

But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal?

Are ye like those within the human breast?

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

XCVII

905

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,

910

Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into
one
word,

And that one word were Lightning, I would speak;

But as it is, I live and die unheard,

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

XCVIII

The morn is up again, the dewy morn,

915

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,

920

Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room

And food for meditation, nor pass by

Much, that may give us pause, if ponder’d fittingly.

XCIX

Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love!

Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;

925

Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above

The very Glaciers have his colours 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

930

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, –

Undying Love’s, who here ascends a throne

To which the steps are mountains; where the god

935

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

940

Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.
¹

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,

945

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.

CII

950

A populous solitude of bees and birds,

And fairy-formed and many-colour’d 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,

955

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,

960

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;

965

He stands not still, but or decays, or grows

Into a boundless blessing, which may vie

With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

CIV

’Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,

Peopling it with affections; but he found

970

It was the scene which passion must allot

To the mind’s purified beings; ’twas the ground

Where early Love his Psyche’s zone unbound,

And hallow’d it with loveliness: ’tis lone,

And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,

975

And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone

Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear’d a throne.

CV

Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes

Of names which unto you bequeath’d a name;
¹

Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,

980

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 assail’d, if Heaven the while

985

On man and man’s research could deign do more than smile.

CVI

The one 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;

990

He multiplied himself among mankind,

The Proteus of their talents: But his own

Breathed most in ridicule, – which, as the wind,

Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, –

Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.

CVII

995

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,

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;

1000

The lord of irony, – that master-spell,

Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,

And doom’d him to the zealot’s ready Hell,

Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

CVIII

Yet, peace be with their ashes, – for by them,

1005

If merited, the penalty is paid;

If it is not ours to judge, – far less condemn;

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,

1010

Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay’d;

And when it shall revive, as is our trust,