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(Childe Harold, Canto iii. Stanzas 99104.) 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 | 5 |
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. | |
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Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, | 10 |
Undying Loves, 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; oer the flower | 15 |
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. | |
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All things are here of him; from the black pines, | |
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar | 20 |
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines | |
Which slope his green path downward to the shore, | |
Where the bowd waters meet him, and adore, | |
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, | |
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, | 25 |
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, | |
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. | |
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A populous solitude of bees and birds, | |
And fairy-formd and many-colourd things, | |
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, | 30 |
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, | 35 |
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. | |
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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 Loves recess, where vain mens woes, | 40 |
And the worlds 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. | 45 |
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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 minds purified beings; twas the ground | |
Where early Love his Psyches zone unbound, | 50 |
And hallowd 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 reard a throne. | |
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