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Percy shelley

Percy Shelley

POEMS
FOLLOWERS
14

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,-behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it-he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.

How eloquent are eyes!
Not the rapt poet’s frenzied lay
When the soul’s wildest feelings stray
Can speak so well as they.
How eloquent are eyes!
Not music’s most impassioned note
On which Love’s warmest fervours float
Like them bids rapture rise.

Love, look thus again,—
That your look may light a waste of years,
Darting the beam that conquers cares
Through the cold shower of tears.
Love, look thus again!

“Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light,
Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffus’d
A Spirit of activity and life,
That knows no term, cessation, or decay;
That fades not when the lamp of earthly life,
Extinguish’d in the dampness of the grave,
Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe
In the dim newness of its being feels
The impulses of sublunary things,
And all is wonder to unpractis’d sense:
But, active, steadfast and eternal, still
Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars,
Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves,
Strengthens in health, and poisons in disease;
And in the storm of change, that ceaselessly
Rolls round the eternal universe and shakes
Its undecaying battlement, presides,
Apportioning with irresistible law
The place each spring of its machine shall fill;
So that when waves on waves tumultuous heap
Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven
Heaven’s lightnings scorch the uprooted ocean—fords,
Whilst, to the eye of shipwreck’d mariner,
Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock,
All seems unlink’d contingency and chance,
No atom of this turbulence fulfils
A vague and unnecessitated task,
Or acts but as it must and ought to act.
Even the minutest molecule of light,
That in an April sunbeam’s fleeting glow
Fulfils its destin’d, though invisible work,
The universal Spirit guides; nor less,
When merciless ambition, or mad zeal,
Has led two hosts of dupes to battlefield,
That, blind, they there may dig each other’s graves,
And call the sad work glory, does it rule
All passions: not a thought, a will, an act,
No working of the tyrant’s moody mind,
Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast
Their servitude to hide the shame they feel,
Nor the events enchaining every will,
That from the depths of unrecorded time
Have drawn all—influencing virtue, pass
Unrecogniz’d or unforeseen by thee,
Soul of the Universe! eternal spring
Of life and death, of happiness and woe,
Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene
That floats before our eyes in wavering light,
Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison,
       Whose chains and massy walls
       We feel, but cannot see.

”Spirit of Nature! all—sufficing Power,
Necessity! thou mother of the world!
Unlike the God of human error, thou
Requir’st no prayers or praises; the caprice
Of man’s weak will belongs no more to thee
Than do the changeful passions of his breast
To thy unvarying harmony: the slave,
Whose horrible lusts spread misery o’er the world,
And the good man, who lifts with virtuous pride
His being in the sight of happiness
That springs from his own works; the poison—tree,
Beneath whose shade all life is wither’d up,
And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords
A temple where the vows of happy love
Are register’d, are equal in thy sight:
No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge
And favouritism, and worst desire of fame
Thou know’st not: all that the wide world contains
Are but thy passive instruments, and thou
Regard’st them all with an impartial eye,
Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel,
         Because thou hast not human sense,
         Because thou art not human mind.

         “Yes! when the sweeping storm of time
Has sung its death—dirge o’er the ruin’d fanes
And broken altars of the almighty Fiend
Whose name usurps thy honours, and the blood
Through centuries clotted there has floated down
The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live
Unchangeable! A shrine is rais’d to thee,
         Which, nor the tempest—breath of time,
         Nor the interminable flood
         Over earth’s slight pageant rolling,
                Availeth to destroy—
The sensitive extension of the world.
         That wondrous and eternal fane,
Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join,
To do the will of strong necessity,
         And life, in multitudinous shapes,
Still pressing forward where no term can be,
         Like hungry and unresting flame
Curls round the eternal columns of its strength.”

And who feels discord now or sorrow?
Love is the universe to-day—
These are the slaves of dim to-morrow,
Darkening Life’s labyrinthine way.

It was a bright and cheerful afternoon,
Towards the end of the sunny month of June,
When the north wind congregates in crowds
The floating mountains of the silver clouds
From the horizon—and the stainless sky
Opens beyond them like eternity.
All things rejoiced beneath the sun; the weeds,
The river, and the cornfields, and the reeds;
The willow leaves that glanced in the light breeze,
And the firm foliage of the larger trees.

It was a winter such as when birds die
In the deep forests; and the fishes lie
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes
A wrinkled clod as hard as brick; and when,
Among their children, comfortable men
Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold:
Alas, then, for the homeless beggar old!

1

Dakrysi Dioisw Potmon Apotmon

Oh! there are spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair
As star-beams among twilight trees:—
Such lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.

With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
And moonlight seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things,
Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice
When they did answer thee; but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.

And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams that were never meant for thine,
Another’s wealth:—tame sacrifice
To a fond faith! still dost thou pine?
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands?

Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope
On the false earth’s inconstancy?
Did thine own mind afford no scope
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles?

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled
Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted;
The glory of the moon is dead;
Night’s ghosts and dreams have now departed;
Thine own soul still is true to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery.

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase;—the mad endeavour
Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.

Fierce roars the midnight storm
O’er the wild mountain,
Dark clouds the night deform,
Swift rolls the fountain—

See! o’er yon rocky height,
Dim mists are flying—
See by the moon’s pale light,
Poor Laura’s dying!

Shame and remorse shall howl,
By her false pillow—
Fiercer than storms that roll,
O’er the white billow;

No hand her eyes to close,
When life is flying,
But she will find repose,
For Laura’s dying!

Then will I seek my love,
Then will I cheer her,
Then my esteem will prove,
When no friend is near her.

On her grave I will lie,
When life is parted,
On her grave I will die,
For the false hearted.

DECEMBER, 1809.

Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.
See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky;
Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger’s rage
Has swept these myriads from life’s crowded stage:
Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,
He shudders in death’s latest agonies;
Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,
Yet does his parting breath essay to speak—
'Oh God! my wife, my children—Monarch thou
For whose support this fainting frame lies low;
For whose support in distant lands I bleed,
Let his friends’ welfare be the warrior’s meed.
He hears me not—ah! no—kings cannot hear,
For passion’s voice has dulled their listless ear.
To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my moan,
Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant’s anguished groan.
Oh! now I die—but still is death’s fierce pain—
God hears my prayer—we meet, we meet again.'
He spake, reclined him on death’s bloody bed,
And with a parting groan his spirit fled.
Oppressors of mankind to YOU we owe
The baleful streams from whence these miseries flow;
For you how many a mother weeps her son,
Snatched from life’s course ere half his race was run!
For you how many a widow drops a tear,
In silent anguish, on her husband’s bier!
‘Is it then Thine, Almighty Power,’ she cries,
‘Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these eyes?
Is this the system which Thy powerful sway,
Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay,
Formed and approved?—it cannot be—but oh!
Forgive me, Heaven, my brain is warped by woe.’
'Tis not—He never bade the war-note swell,
He never triumphed in the work of hell—
Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful deed,
Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed.
Ah! when will come the sacred fated time,
When man unsullied by his leaders’ crime,
Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and pride,
Will stretch him fearless by his foe-men’s side?
Ah! when will come the time, when o’er the plain
No more shall death and desolation reign?
When will the sun smile on the bloodless field,
And the stern warrior’s arm the sickle wield?
Not whilst some King, in cold ambition’s dreams,
Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes;
Not whilst for private pique the public fall,
And one frail mortal’s mandate governs all.
Swelled with command and mad with dizzying sway;
Who sees unmoved his myriads fade away.
Careless who lives or dies—so that he gains
Some trivial point for which he took the pains.
What then are Kings?—I see the trembling crowd,
I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud;
Their stern oppressor pleased appears awhile,
But April’s sunshine is a Monarch’s smile—
Kings are but dust—the last eventful day
Will level all and make them lose their sway;
Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch’s hand,
And from the warrior’s grasp wrest the ensanguined brand.
Oh! Peace, soft Peace, art thou for ever gone,
Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown?
And love and concord hast thou swept away,
As if incongruous with thy parted sway?
Alas, I fear thou hast, for none appear.
Now o’er the palsied earth stalks giant Fear,
With War, and Woe, and Terror, in his train;—
List’ning he pauses on the embattled plain,
Then speeding swiftly o’er the ensanguined heath,
Has left the frightful work to Hell and Death.
See! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained car,
He scents the battle’s carnage from afar;
Hell and Destruction mark his mad career,
He tracks the rapid step of hurrying Fear;
Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities tell,
That thy work, Monarch, is the work of Hell.
‘It is thy work!’ I hear a voice repeat,
Shakes the broad basis of thy bloodstained seat;
And at the orphan’s sigh, the widow’s moan,
Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained throne—
‘It is thy work, O Monarch;’ now the sound
Fainter and fainter, yet is borne around,
Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell
That Heaven, indignant at the work of Hell,
Will soon the cause, the hated cause remove,
Which tears from earth peace, innocence, and love.

The flower that smiles to—day
          To—morrow dies;
All that we wish to stay
          Tempts and then flies.
What is this world’s delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
          Brief even as bright.

   Virtue, how frail it is!
          Friendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
          For proud despair!
But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
          Which ours we call.

   Whilst skies are blue and bright,
          Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
          Make glad the day;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou—and from thy sleep
          Then wake to weep.

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on the earth,
 Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,—
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Emily,
    A ship is floating in the harbour now,
    A wind is hovering o’er the mountain’s brow;
    There is a path on the sea’s azure floor,
    No keel has ever plough’d that path before;
    The halcyons brood around the foamless isles;
    The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles;
    The merry mariners are bold and free:
    Say, my heart’s sister, wilt thou sail with me?
  Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest
  Is a far Eden of the purple East;
  And we between her wings will sit, while Night,
  And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue their flight,
  Our ministers, along the boundless Sea,
  Treading each other’s heels, unheededly.
  It is an isle under Ionian skies,
  Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise,
  And, for the harbours are not safe and good,
  This land would have remain’d a solitude
  But for some pastoral people native there,
  Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air
  Draw the last spirit of the age of gold,
  Simple and spirited; innocent and bold.
  The blue Aegean girds this chosen home,
  With ever-changing sound and light and foam,
  Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar;
  And all the winds wandering along the shore
  Undulate with the undulating tide:
  There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide;
  And many a fountain, rivulet and pond,
  As clear as elemental diamond,
  Or serene morning air; and far beyond,
  The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer
  (Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year)
  Pierce into glades, caverns and bowers, and halls
  Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls
  Illumining, with sound that never fails
  Accompany the noonday nightingales;
  And all the place is peopled with sweet airs;
  The light clear element which the isle wears
  Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers,
  Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers,
  And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep;
  And from the moss violets and jonquils peep
  And dart their arrowy odour through the brain
  Till you might faint with that delicious pain.
  And every motion, odour, beam and tone,
  With that deep music is in unison:
  Which is a soul within the soul—they seem
  Like echoes of an antenatal dream.
  It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth and Sea,
  Cradled and hung in clear tranquillity;
  Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer,
  Wash’d by the soft blue Oceans of young air.
  It is a favour’d place. Famine or Blight,
  Pestilence, War and Earthquake, never light
  Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, they
  Sail onward far upon their fatal way:
  The wingèd storms, chanting their thunder-psalm
    To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm
  Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,
  From which its fields and woods ever renew
  Their green and golden immortality.
  And from the sea there rise, and from the sky
  There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright,
  Veil after veil, each hiding some delight,
  Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside,
  Till the isle’s beauty, like a naked bride
  Glowing at once with love and loveliness,
  Blushes and trembles at its own excess:
  Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less
  Burns in the heart of this delicious isle,
  An atom of th’ Eternal, whose own smile
  Unfolds itself, and may be felt not seen
  O’er the gray rocks, blue waves and forests green,
  Filling their bare and void interstices.
  But the chief marvel of the wilderness
  Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or how
  None of the rustic island-people know:
  ’Tis not a tower of strength, though with its height
  It overtops the woods; but, for delight,
  Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere crime
  Had been invented, in the world’s young prime,
  Rear’d it, a wonder of that simple time,
  An envy of the isles, a pleasure-house
  Made sacred to his sister and his spouse.
  It scarce seems now a wreck of human art,
  But, as it were, Titanic; in the heart
  Of Earth having assum’d its form, then grown
  Out of the mountains, from the living stone,
  Lifting itself in caverns light and high:
  For all the antique and learned imagery
  Has been eras’d, and in the place of it
  The ivy and the wild-vine interknit
  The volumes of their many-twining stems;
  Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems
  The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky
  Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery
  With moonlight patches, or star atoms keen,
  Or fragments of the day’s intense serene;
  Working mosaic on their Parian floors.
  And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers
  And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem
  To sleep in one another’s arms, and dream
  Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that we
  Read in their smiles, and call reality.

    This isle and house are mine, and I have vow’d
  Thee to be lady of the solitude.
  And I have fitted up some chambers there
  Looking towards the golden Eastern air,
  And level with the living winds, which flow
  Like waves above the living waves below.
  I have sent books and music there, and all
  Those instruments with which high Spirits call
  The future from its cradle, and the past
  Out of its grave, and make the present last
  In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die,
  Folded within their own eternity.
  Our simple life wants little, and true taste
  Hires not the pale drudge Luxury to waste
  The scene it would adorn, and therefore still,
  Nature with all her children haunts the hill.
  The ring-dove, in the embowering ivy, yet
  Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls flit
  Round the evening tower, and the young stars glance
  Between the quick bats in their twilight dance;
  The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlight
  Before our gate, and the slow, silent night
  Is measur’d by the pants of their calm sleep.
  Be this our home in life, and when years heap
  Their wither’d hours, like leaves, on our decay,
  Let us become the overhanging day,
  The living soul of this Elysian isle,
  Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile
  We two will rise, and sit, and walk together,
  Under the roof of blue Ionian weather,
  And wander in the meadows, or ascend
  The mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bend
  With lightest winds, to touch their paramour;
  Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore,
  Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea,
  Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy—
  Possessing and possess’d by all that is
  Within that calm circumference of bliss,
  And by each other, till to love and live
  Be one: or, at the noontide hour, arrive
  Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to keep
  The moonlight of the expir’d night asleep,
  Through which the awaken’d day can never peep;
  A veil for our seclusion, close as night’s,
  Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent lights;
  Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain
  Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again.
  And we will talk, until thought’s melody
  Become too sweet for utterance, and it die
  In words, to live again in looks, which dart
  With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart,
  Harmonizing silence without a sound.
  Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound,
  And our veins beat together; and our lips
  With other eloquence than words, eclipse
  The soul that burns between them, and the wells
  Which boil under our being’s inmost cells,
  The fountains of our deepest life, shall be
  Confus’d in Passion’s golden purity,
  As mountain-springs under the morning sun.
  We shall become the same, we shall be one
  Spirit within two frames, oh! wherefore two?
  One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew,
  Till like two meteors of expanding flame,
  Those spheres instinct with it become the same,
  Touch, mingle, are transfigur’d; ever still
  Burning, yet ever inconsumable:
  In one another’s substance finding food,
  Like flames too pure and light and unimbu’d
  To nourish their bright lives with baser prey,
  Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away:
  One hope within two wills, one will beneath
  Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death,
  One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality,
  And one annihilation. Woe is me!
  The winged words on which my soul would pierce
  Into the height of Love’s rare Universe,
  Are chains of lead around its flight of fire—
  I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!

                                   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
The source of human thought its tribute brings
Of waters—with a sound but half its own,
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume,
In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.

                                    II

Thus thou, Ravine of Arve—dark, deep Ravine—
Thou many—colour’d, many—voiced vale,
Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail
Fast cloud—shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes 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,
Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,
Children of elder time, in whose devotion
The chainless winds still come and ever came
To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging
To hear—an old and solemn harmony;
Thine earthly rainbows stretch’d across the sweep
Of the aethereal waterfall, whose veil
Robes some unsculptur’d image; the strange sleep
Which when the voices of the desert fail
Wraps all in its own deep eternity;
Thy caverns echoing to the Arve’s commotion,
A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;
Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,
Thou art the path of that unresting sound—
Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange
To muse on my own separate fantasy,
My own, my human mind, which passively
Now renders and receives fast influencings,
Holding an unremitting interchange
With the clear universe of things around;
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings
Now float above thy darkness, and now rest
Where that or thou art no unbidden guest,
In the still cave of the witch Poesy,
Seeking among the shadows that pass by
Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee,
Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast
From which they fled recalls them, thou art there!

                                    III

Some say that gleams of a remoter world
Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber,
And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber
Of those who wake and live.—I look on high;
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl’d
The veil of life and death? or do I lie
In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep
Spread far around and inaccessibly
Its circles? For the very spirit fails,
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep
That vanishes among the viewless gales!
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,
Mont Blanc appears—still, snowy, and serene;
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps;
A desert peopled by the storms alone,
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,
Ghastly, and scarr’d, and riven.—Is this the scene
Where the old Earthquake—daemon taught her young
Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea
Of fire envelop once this silent snow?
None can reply—all seems eternal now.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be,
But for such faith, with Nature reconcil’d;
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal
Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.

                                    IV

The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams,
Ocean, and all the living things that dwell
Within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain,
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane,
The torpor of the year when feeble dreams
Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep
Holds every future leaf and flower; the bound
With which from that detested trance they leap;
The works and ways of man, their death and 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.
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity,
Remote, serene, and inaccessible:
And this, the naked countenance of earth,
On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains
Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep
Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains,
Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power
Have pil’d: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,
A city of death, distinct with many a tower
And wall impregnable of beaming ice.
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky
Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing
Its destin’d path, or in the mangled soil
Branchless and shatter’d stand; the rocks, drawn down
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown
The limits of the dead and living world,
Never to be reclaim’d. The dwelling—place
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;
Their food and their retreat for ever gone,
So much of life and joy is lost. The race
Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest’s stream,
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves
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.
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend
Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there,
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,
Or the star—beams dart through them. Winds contend
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath
Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes
Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods
Over the snow. The secret Strength of things
Which governs thought, and to the infinite 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?