CII.

   A populous solitude of bees and birds,
   And fairy-formed 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.

CIII.

   He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,
   And make his heart a spirit:  he who knows
   That tender mystery, will love the more,
   For this is Love’s recess, where vain men’s woes,
   And the world’s waste, have driven him far from those,
   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!

CIV.

   ’Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot,
   Peopling it with affections; but he found
   It was the scene which passion must allot
   To the mind’s purified beings; ’twas the ground
   Where early Love his Psyche’s zone unbound,
   And hallowed it with loveliness:  ’tis lone,
   And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,
   And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne.

CV.

   Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes
   Of names which unto you bequeathed a name;
   Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads,
   A path to perpetuity of fame: 
   They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim
   Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile
   Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame
   Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the while
On man and man’s research could deign do more than smile.

CVI.

   The one was fire and fickleness, a child
   Most mutable in wishes, but in mind
   A wit as various,—­gay, grave, sage, or wild, —
   Historian, bard, philosopher combined: 
   He multiplied himself among mankind,
   The Proteus of their talents:  But his own
   Breathed most in ridicule,—­which, as the wind,
   Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, —
Now to o’erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.

CVII.

   The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,
   And hiving wisdom with each studious year,
   In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,
   And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
   Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
   The lord of irony,—­that master spell,
   Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,
   And doomed him to the zealot’s ready hell,
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.