ISOLATION. 431 



Yet, rising with the evening breeze, and spreading wide around. 

 From the gothic village -spire comes a soft, religious sound. 

 The traveller stops to listen, while he blames his fond delay. 

 As the holy concert mingles with the last faint sounds of day. 



But from all these lovely pictures with indifference I turn. 



For me they have no charms. In my heart no transports burn. 



I gaze upon the world like a spirit passed away. 



The sun that cheers the living cannot warm the breathless clay. 



In vain from hill to hill my wandering glances fly. 

 In vain o'er all the vast extent I cast an anxious eye. 

 The north, the south, the ruddy east, the golden tinted west. 

 That life contains no bliss for me too mournfully attest. 



What are to me these palaces, these cottages, these vales ? 

 Vain objects all, whose borrowed charm for nothing now avails. 

 The floods, the rocks, the forests, all beauteous though they be. 

 When the sole-beloved one is not there, unpeopled seem to me ! 



Whether the sun his circling round commences or concludes 

 My eye indiff'erent surveys. To the heart's deep solitudes 

 What boots it that he rise or sink in a pure or clouded sky ? 

 What is the sun ? To me the day can nothing now supply. 



Could I follow him on mounting wings, in his wide and bright career. 

 My eyes would see on every side but a desert void and drear. 

 I nothing ask of the glorious light which around me sheds its rays. 

 I nothing ask of this universe, immense, on which I gaze. 



But, perhaps, beyond the last faint line of his vast, yet bounded sphere. 

 Where o'er other heavens the true sun shines with a light more purely clear. 

 If I could leave my mortal spoils on the earth on which I pine. 

 The things that I so oft have dreamed before my eyes might shine. 



There would I quaff the draught divine, at the source where I aspire. 

 There hope and love, refound once more, again my breast should fire 

 With the fancied good, so sweet in thought, which every heart demands. 

 And which has no name in this lower world where earth-born mem commands. 



Why cannot I, all lightly borne on Aurora's rose-tipped car. 

 Vague object of my longing vows, my bold flight take so far. 

 From this mournful scene of exile, as to mount up e'en to thee ? 

 For there is no touch of sympathy betwixt this earth and me. 



When the forest sheds its honours, and the fallen leaves decay. 



The wind of evening rises and transports them far away. 



And I, who but resemble a withered leaf forlorn. 



Take me, ye stormy northern winds, on your blighting pinions borne ! 



Paris, March 18, 1836. 



