LXVIII.

   Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,
   The mirror where the stars and mountains view
   The stillness of their aspect in each trace
   Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue: 
   There is too much of man here, to look through
   With a fit mind the might which I behold;
   But soon in me shall Loneliness renew
   Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old,
Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.

LXIX.

   To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;
   All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
   Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
   Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
   In one hot throng, where we become the spoil
   Of our infection, till too late and long
   We may deplore and struggle with the coil,
   In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.

LXX.

   There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
   In fatal penitence, and in the blight
   Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
   And colour things to come with hues of Night;
   The race of life becomes a hopeless flight
   To those that walk in darkness:  on the sea,
   The boldest steer but where their ports invite,
   But there are wanderers o’er Eternity
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne’er shall be.

LXXI.

   Is it not better, then, to be alone,
   And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
   By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,
   Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
   Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
   A fair but froward infant her own care,
   Kissing its cries away as these awake; —
   Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear?

LXXII.

   I live not in myself, but I become
   Portion of that around me; and to me,
   High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
   Of human cities torture:  I can see
   Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be
   A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
   Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee,
   And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.

LXXIII.

   And thus I am absorbed, and this is life: 
   I look upon the peopled desert Past,
   As on a place of agony and strife,
   Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,
   To act and suffer, but remount at last
   With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring,
   Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast
   Which it would cope with, on delighted wing,
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.