Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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Lucile | ||
XIX.
If ever your feet, like my own,
O reader, have travers'd these mountains alone,
Have you felt your identity shrink and contract
At the sound of the distant and dim cataract,
In the presence of nature's immensities? Say,
Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew'd with its spray,
And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and roll'd,
Like a huge couchant Typhon, fold heap'd over fold,
Track'd the summits, from which every step that you tread
Rolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to the bed
Of invisible waters, whose mystical sound
Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound?
And, labouring onwards, at last through a break
In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake?
O reader, have travers'd these mountains alone,
Have you felt your identity shrink and contract
At the sound of the distant and dim cataract,
103
Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew'd with its spray,
And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and roll'd,
Like a huge couchant Typhon, fold heap'd over fold,
Track'd the summits, from which every step that you tread
Rolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to the bed
Of invisible waters, whose mystical sound
Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound?
And, labouring onwards, at last through a break
In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake?
If you have, this description I might have withheld.
You remember how strangely your bosom has swell'd
At the vision reveal'd. On the over-work'd soil
Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil;
And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height,
To have conquer'd a claim to that wonderful sight.
You remember how strangely your bosom has swell'd
At the vision reveal'd. On the over-work'd soil
Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil;
And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height,
To have conquer'd a claim to that wonderful sight.
Lucile | ||