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.