"Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face" (68-118)

LXVIII.

   Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,
   The mirror where the stars and mountains view
   The stillness of their aspect in each trace
   Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue:
   There is too much of man here, to look through
   With a fit mind the might which I behold;
   But soon in me shall Loneliness renew
   Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old,
Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.

LXIX.

   To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;
   All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
   Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
   Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
   In one hot throng, where we become the spoil
   Of our infection, till too late and long
   We may deplore and struggle with the coil,
   In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.

LXX.

   There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
   In fatal penitence, and in the blight
   Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
   And colour things to come with hues of Night;
   The race of life becomes a hopeless flight
   To those that walk in darkness:  on the sea,
   The boldest steer but where their ports invite,
   But there are wanderers o'er Eternity
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be.

LXXI.

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

LXXII.

   I live not in myself, but I become
   Portion of that around me; and to me,
   High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
   Of human cities torture:  I can see
   Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be
   A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
   Classed 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.

LXXIII.

   And thus I am absorbed, 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 cast,
   To act and suffer, but remount at last
   With a fresh pinion; which I felt 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.

LXXIV.

   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?

LXXV.

   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 contemn
   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 turned below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?

LXXVI.

   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 awhile--a passing guest,
   Where he became a being,--whose desire
   Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest,
The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest.

LXXVII.

   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 he knew
   How to make madness beautiful, and cast
   O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
   Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

LXXVIII.

   His love was passion's essence--as a tree
   On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
   Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be
   Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same.
   But his was not the love of living dame,
   Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
   But of Ideal beauty, which became
   In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.

LXXIX.

   THIS breathed itself to life in Julie, THIS
   Invested her with all that's wild and sweet;
   This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss
   Which every morn his fevered lip would greet,
   From hers, who but with friendship his would meet:
   But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast
   Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring heat;
   In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest,
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.

LXXX.

   His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
   Or friends by him self-banished; 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 frenzied,--wherefore, who may know?
   Since cause might be which skill could never find;
   But he was frenzied by disease or woe
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.

LXXXI.

   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 no more:
   Did he not this for France, which lay before
   Bowed 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 follows o'ergrown fears?

LXXXII.

   They made themselves a fearful monument!
   The wreck of old opinions--things which grew,
   Breathed from the birth of time:  the veil they rent,
   And what behind it lay, all earth shall view.
   But good with ill they also overthrew,
   Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild
   Upon the same foundation, and renew
   Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled,
As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed.

LXXXIII.

   But this will not endure, nor be endured!
   Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt.
   They might have used it better, but, allured
   By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt
   On one another; Pity ceased to melt
   With her once natural charities.  But they,
   Who in Oppression's darkness caved had dwelt,
   They were not eagles, nourished with the day;
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?

LXXXIV.

   What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
   The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
   That which disfigures it; and they who war
   With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear
   Silence, but not submission:  in his lair
   Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour
   Which shall atone for years; none need despair:
   It came, it cometh, and will come,--the power
To punish or forgive--in ONE we shall be slower.

LXXXV.

   Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
   With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
   Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
   Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
   This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
   To waft me from distraction; once I loved
   Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
   Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

LXXXVI.

   It is the hush of night, and all between
   Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
   Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen.
   Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
   Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
   There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
   Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
   Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;

LXXXVII.

   He is an evening reveller, who makes
   His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
   At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
   Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
   There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
   But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
   All silently their tears of love instil,
   Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

LXXXVIII.

   Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,
   If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
   Of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven,
   That in our aspirations to be great,
   Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
   And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
   A beauty and a mystery, and create
   In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

LXXXIX.

   All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep,
   But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
   And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:  -
   All heaven and earth are still:  from the high host
   Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast,
   All is concentered in a life intense,
   Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
   But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

XC.

   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;--'twould disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

XCI.

   Nor 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 unwalled temple, there to seek
   The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
   Upreared of human hands.  Come, and compare
   Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
   With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!

XCII.

   The sky is changed!--and such a change!  O night,
   And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 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 shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

XCIII.

   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 sea,
   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.

XCIV.

   Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
   Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
   In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
   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.

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,
   And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
   Flashing and cast around:  of all the band,
   The brightest through these parted hills hath forked
   His lightnings, as if he did understand
   That in such gaps as desolation worked,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.

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
   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?

XCVII.

   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 and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

XCVIII.

   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 contained 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 pondered fittingly.

XCIX.

   Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love!
   Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;
   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
   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
   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.

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,
   Where the bowed 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.

   A populous solitude of bees and birds,
   And fairy-formed and many coloured 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,
   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,
   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;
   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
   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 hallowed it with loveliness:  'tis lone,
   And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,
   And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne.

CV.

   Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes
   Of names which unto you bequeathed 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 assailed, if Heaven the while
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:
   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.

   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;
   The lord of irony,--that master spell,
   Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,
   And doomed 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,
   If merited, the penalty is paid;
   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 allayed
   By slumber on one pillow, in the dust,
   Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed;
   And when it shall revive, as is our trust,
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.

CIX.

   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.

CX.

   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
   Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

CXI.

   Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
   Renewed 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,
   With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught, -
   Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, -
   Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
Is a stern task of soul: --No matter,--it is taught.

CXII.

   And for these words, thus woven into song,
   It may be that they are a harmless wile, -
   The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
   Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
   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,--remembered or forgot.

CXIII.

   I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
   I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed
   To its idolatries a patient knee, -
   Nor coined 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.

CXIV.

   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
   Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive,
   And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
   Snares for the falling:  I would also deem
   O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
   That two, or one, are almost what they seem, -
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

CXV.

   My daughter! with thy name this song begun -
   My daughter! with thy name this much shall end -
   I see thee not, I hear thee not,--but none
   Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
   To whom the shadows of far years extend:
   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.

CXVI.

   To aid thy mind's development,--to watch
   Thy dawn of little joys,--to sit and see
   Almost thy very growth,--to view thee catch
   Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee!
   To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
   And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, -
   This, it should seem, was not reserved for me
   Yet this was in my nature: --As it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

CXVII.

   Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
   I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
   Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
   With desolation, and a broken claim:
   Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same,
   I know that thou wilt love me:  though to drain
   MY blood from out thy being were an aim,
   And an attainment,--all would be in vain, -
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.

CXVIII.

   The child of love,--though born in bitterness,
   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 tempered, and thy hope far higher.
   Sweet be thy cradled slumbers!  O'er the sea,
   And from the mountains where I now respire,
   Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!