MONT BLANC. LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. I. THE everlasting universe of Things Flows through the Mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark-now glittering-now reflecting gloomNow 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 woods and winds contend, and a vast river II. Thus thou, Ravine of Arve-dark, deep Ravine- Over whose pines and crags and caverns sail To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging To hear, an old and solemn harmony; Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the sweep Robes some unsculptured 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, I seem, as in a trance sublime and strange, One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings 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 unfurled The veil of life and death? Or do I lie Its circles? for the very spirit fails, Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread 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 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 envelop once this silent snow? Which teaches awful doubt,-or faith so mild, But for such faith, with Nature reconciled. IV. The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, Within the dædal earth, lightning and rain, Holds every future leaf and flower, the bound The works and ways of man, their death and birth, 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 primæval 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 Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin, Is there, that from the boundary of the skies1 Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing Its destined path, or in the mangled soil Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, drawn down From yon remotest waste, have overthrown So much of life and joy is lost. The race And their place is not known. Below, vast caves V. Mont Blanc yet gleams on high: the power is there, And many sounds, and much of life and death. Or the star-beams dart through them. Winds contend Rapid and strong, but silently. Its home The voiceless lightning in these solitudes Over the snow. The secret Strength of Things, And what were thou and earth and stars and sea, 23 July 1816. NOTE ON POEMS OF 1816, BY MRS. SHELLEY. SHELLEY wrote little during this year. The poem entitled The Sunset was written in the Spring of the year, while still residing at Bishopgate. He spent the summer on the shores of the Lake of Geneva. The Hymn to Intellectual Beauty was conceived during his voyage round the lake with Lord Byron. He occupied himself during this voyage by reading the Nouvelle Héloïse for the first time. The reading it on the very spot where the scenes are laid added to the interest; and he was at once surprised and charmed by the passionate eloquence and earnest enthralling interest that pervade this work. There was something in the character of Saint-Preux, in his abnegation of self, and in the worship he paid to Love, that coincided with Shelley's own disposition; and, though differing in many of the views, and shocked by others, yet the effect of the whole was fascinating and delightful. Mont Blanc was inspired by a view of that mountain and its surrounding peaks and valleys, as he lingered on the Bridge of Arve on his way through the Valley of Chamouni. Shelley makes the following mention of this poem in his publication of the History of Six Weeks Tour, and Letters from Switzerland: "The poem entitled Mont Blanc is written by the author of the two letters from Chamouni and Vevai. It was composed under the immediate impression of the deep and powerful feelings excited by the objects which it attempts to describe; and, as an undisciplined overflowing of the soul, rests its claim to approbation on an attempt to imitate the untameable wildness and inaccessible solemnity from which those feelings sprang." This was an eventful year, and less time was given to study than usual. In the list of his reading I find, in Greek, Theocritus, the Prometheus of Eschylus, several of Plutarch's Lives, and the works of Lucian. In Latin, Lucretius, Pliny's Letters, the Annals and Germany of Tacitus. In French, the History of the French Revolution by Lacretelle. He read for the first time, this year, Montaigne's Essays, and regarded them ever after as one of the most delightful and instructive books in the world. The list is scanty in English works: Locke's Essay, Political Justice, and Coleridge's Lay Sermon, form nearly the whole. It was his frequent habit to read aloud to me in the evening; in this way we read, this year, the New Testament, Paradise Lost, Spenser's Faerie Queen, and Don Quixote. VOL III. |