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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 do
parted: Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, - war within themselves to
XCV. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here not, not one, but many, make their play, 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 unterstand, That in such gaps as desolation work'd, There the hot shaft shoult blast whatever therein
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, oh tempests! is the goal ?
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; Bus 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 incence, and with clieek 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 pondered fittingly.
XCIX. Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-place 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 sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought 22 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,
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, 1 But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it
stood Offering to him, and his, a populous solitado,
CII. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd 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.