« 上一頁繼續 »
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters,
war within themselves to
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 lurk'd.
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?
Are y Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?
like those within the human breast?
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,
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incence, and with cheek all bloom,
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.
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, then mocks.
Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,
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,
A populous solitude of bees and birds,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than
And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,
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!