But I imagined that if day by day
I watched him, and but seldom went away, And studied all the beatings of his heart With zeal, as men study some stubborn art For their own good, and could by patience find An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from this dark estate: In friendships I had been most fortunate— Yet never saw I one whom I would call More willingly my friend; and this was all Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good Oft come and go in crowds and solitude And leave no trace-but what I now designed Made for long years impression on my mind. The following morning urged by my affairs I left bright Venice.
And many changes I returned; the name Of Venice, and its aspect was the same; But Maddalo was travelling far away Among the mountains of Armenia.
His dog was dead. His child had now become A woman; such as it has been my doom
To meet with few, a wonder of this earth Where there is little of transcendant worth, Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she, And with a manner beyond courtesy, Received her father's friend; and when I asked Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked And told as she had heard the mournful tale. "That the poor sufferer's health began to fail Two years from my departure, but that then The lady who had left him, came again.
Her mien had been imperious, but she now
Looked meek-perhaps remorse had brought her low. Her coming made him better, and they stayed Together at my father's-for I played
As I remember with the lady's shawl—
I might be six years old-but after all She left him
"Why, her heart must have been
How did it end?" "And was not this enough? They met they parted"-"Child, is there no more?" "Something within that interval which bore
The stamp of why they parted, how they met :
Yet if thine agèd eyes disdain to wet
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears, Ask me no more, but let the silent years Be closed and cered over their memory As yon mute marble where their corpses lie." I urged and questioned still, she told me how
All happened—but the cold world shall not know.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
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.
Thus thou, Ravine of Arve—dark, deep Ravine— Thou many-coloured, 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 gulphs that gird his secret throne, Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame Of lightning thro' 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 stretched across the sweep Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil
Robes some unsculptured image; the strange sleep Which when the voices of the desart 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 phantasy, 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!
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 unfurled 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 desart 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 heaped around! rude, bare, and high,
Ghastly, and scarred, and riven.—Is this the scene Where the old Earthquake-dæmon taught her young Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea Of fire envelope 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 reconciled; 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.
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