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Self-moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud,
And the heavens with the burthen of Godhead are bowed.
The glory! the glory! Around him are poured
The myriads of angels that wait on the Lord;
The trumpet! the trumpet! The dead have all heard,
The judgment! the judgment! The thrones are all set,
O mercy! O mercy! Look down from above,
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun,
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder-
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
It ardours of rest and love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
Sun-beam proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;
For, after the rain, when, with never a stain,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph.
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
THE fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams,
All things that move and breathe, with toil and sound,
Are born and die, revolve, subside, and swell.
Remote, serene, and inaccessible:
And this, the naked countenance of earth,
On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains,
Frost and the sun, in scorn of mortal power,
Is there, that, from the boundaries of the sky,
Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks drawn down
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;
So much of life and joy is lost. The race
Of man flies far in dread: his work and dwelling
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves,
Breathes its swift vapour to the circling air.