Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from Among the flowers and grass, which screen it the tomb, Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Hate, and pride, and fear Yet if we could scorn If we were things born Not to shed a tear, Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds, depart And come, for some uncertain moments lent. Man were immortal, and omnipotent, Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, I know not how thy joy we ever should come Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. THE awful shadow of some unseen Power It visits with inconstant glance Like clouds in starlight widely spread, Like aught that for its grace may be Spirit of BEAUTY! that dost consecrate With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, shown; Why fear and dream and death and birth No voice from some sublimer world hath ever · Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavour: to sever, From all we hear and all we see, Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven, heart. Thou messenger of sympathies That wax and wane in lovers' eyes; Thou, that to human thought art nourishment, While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped ruin, And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing I was not heard: I saw them not. Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing I shriek'd, and clasp'd my hands in ecstasy! I vow'd that I would dedicate my powers To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow? With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave: they have in vision'd bowers Of studious zeal or love's delight Outwatch'd with me the envious night: They know that never joy illumined my brow, Unlink'd with hope that thou wouldst free This world from its dark slavery, That thou, O awful LOVELINESS, Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express. The day becomes more solemn and serene Thus let thy power, which like the truth Its calm, to one who worships thee, And every form containing thee, Whom, SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind To fear himself, and love all human-kind. MONT BLANC. LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. I. THE everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark-now glittering-now reflecting gloom Now lending splendour, where from secret springs In the wild woods, among the mountains lone, river Its subject mountains their unearthly forms Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread Where woods and winds contend, and a vast Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, And the wolf tracks her there-how hideously Its shapes are heap'd around! rude, bare, and high, Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. II. Thus thou, Ravine of Arve-dark, deep Ravine scene, Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven.-Is this the scene Where the old Earthquake-demon taught her young Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea Of fire envelope once this silent snow? None can reply-all seems eternal now. Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes The wilderness has a mysterious tongue down From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne, Bursting through these dark mountains, like the flame Of lightning through the tempest; thou dost lie, The chainless winds still come and ever came Which, when the voices of the desert fail, Now float above thy darkness, and now rest Some say that gleams of a remoter world In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep Its circles? For the very spirit fails, Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, IV. The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, birth, And that of him and all that his may be ; All things that move and breathe with toil and sound Are born and die, revolve, subside, and swell. And this, the naked countenance of earth, Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice From yon remotest waste, have overthrown Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling That vanishes among the viewless gales! Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, Mont Blanc appears, still, snowy, and serene-Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, Which, from those secret chasms in tumult welling, Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air. V. Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:-the power is there, The still and solemn power of many sights And many sounds, and much of life and death. Silently there, and heap the snow with breath dome Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee! And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, If to the human mind's imaginings Silence and solitude were vacancy? SWITZERLAND, June 23, 1816. THE FUGITIVES. I. THE waters are flashing, The white hail is dashing, The lightnings are glancing, The hoar-spray is dancingAway! The whirlwind is rolling, The thunder is tolling, The forest is swinging, The Earth is like Ocean, Wreck-strewn and in motion: Bird, beast, man and worm Have crept out of the stormCome away! II. "Our boat has one sail, And she cried: "Ply the oar! And from isle, tower and rock, The blue beacon cloud broke, And though dumb in the blast, The red cannon flash'd fast From the lee. III. "And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ? I and thou?" One boat-cloak did cover While around the lash'd Ocean, IV. In the court of the fortress, Like a blood-hound well beaten, By shame; On the topmost watch-turret, And with curses as wild He devotes to the blast A LAMENT. SWIFTER far than summer's flight, Art thou come and gone: The swallow Summer comes again, To fly with thee, false as thou. Sunny leaves from any bough. Lilies for a bridal bed, |