XC.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;

A truth, which through our being then doth melt
And purifies from self: it is a tone,

The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,

Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,

Binding all things with beauty;-'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

XCI.

Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak

Of earth-o'ergazing mountains (1), and thus take
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek

The Spirit in whose honour shrines are weak,
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r!

the lake. Nine o'clock-going to bed. Have to get up at five to. morrow."- After Lord Byron quitted the Campagne-Diodati, Sir Egerton Brydges tells us, that the doors of the house were beset by travellers, anxious to get a sight of the room in which the poet slept.-E]

(1) It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount. To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence, -the most effectual and splendid specimens were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes addressed the public and po. pular assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceived from the

XCII.

Thy sky is changed!-and such a change! Oh night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

difference between what we read of the emotions then and there produced and those we ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigæum and on the tumuli, or by the springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain and rivers and Archipelago around you; and another to trim your taper over it in a snug library—this I know. Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass nor to question), I should venture to ascribe it to the practice of preaching in the felds, and the unstudied and extemporaneous effusions of its teachers.— The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons and prayers, wherever they may be, at the stated hoursof course, frequently in the open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as required): the ceremony lasts some minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and only living in their supplication: nothing can disturb them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and upon them, made a far greater impression than any general rite which was ever performed in places of worship, of which I have seen those of almost every persuasion under the sun; including most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their belief and its rites: some of these I had a distant view of at Patras ; and, from what I could make out of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and not very agreeable to a spectator.

XCIII.

And this is in the night:-Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-
A portion of the tempest and of thee! (1)
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,—and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's

birth. (2)

XCIV.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his

[tween

way

be

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-
hearted!
[thwarted,
Though in their souls, which thus each other
Love was the very root of the fond rage

Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de-
Itself expired, but leaving them an age [parted:
Of years all winters,-war within themselves to wage.

(1) The thunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen, among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari, several more terrible, but none more beautiful. [Afacsimile of the first draught of these remarkable stanzas is given in vol ix.-E.

(2) ["This is one of the most beautiful passages of the poem. The 'fierce and far delight' of a thunder-storm is here described in verse almost as vivid as its lightnings. The live thunder' leaping among the rattling crags'-the voice of mountains, as if shouting to each other-the plashing of the big rain-the gleaming of the wide lake, lighted like a phosphoric sea- present a picture of sublime terror, yet of enjoyment, often attempted, but never so well, certainly never better brought out in poetry."-SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

XCV.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band,

The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings, -as if he did understand,

That in such gaps as desolation work'd,

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein

lurk'd.

XCVI.

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. (1)
But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal?

Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

(1) The Journal of his Swiss tour, which Lord Byron kept for his sister, closes with the following mournful passage:-"In the weather, for this tour, of thirteen days, I have been very fortunate-fortunate in a companion" (Mr. Hobhouse) -"fortunate in our prospects, and exempt from even the little petty accidents and delays which often render journeys in a less wild country disappointing. I was disposed to be pleased. I am a lover of nature, and an admirer of beauty. I can bear fatigue, and welcome privation, and have seen some of the noblest views in the world. But in all this, the recollection of bitterness, and more especially of recent and more home desolation, which must accompany me through life, has preyed upon me here; and neither the music of the shepherd, the crashing of the avalanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, have for one moment lightened the weight upon my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own wretched identity, in the majesty, and the power, and the glory, around, above, and beneath me."-E]

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 contain'd 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 ponder'd fittingly. [Love,

XCIX.

Clarens! sweet Clarens, (1) birthplace of deep Thineair 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.

(I) [Stanzas xcix. to cxv. are exquisite. They have every thing which VOL. VIII.

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