Chapter 8
Werner.
How gloriously beautiful is earth! In these her quiet, unfrequented haunts, To which, except the timid chamois' foot, Or venturous hunter's, or the eagle's wing, Naught from beneath ascends. As yet the sun But darts his earliest rays of golden light Upon the summits of the tallest peaks, Which robed in clouds and capped with glittering ice, Soar proudly up, and beam and blaze aloft, As if they would claim kindred with the stars! And they may claim such kindred, for there is Within, around, and over them, the same Supreme, eternal, all-creating spirit Which glows and burns in every beaming orb That circles in immeasurable space! Far as the eye can trace the mountain's crest On either hand, a gorgeous, varied mass Of glowing, cloud-formed ranges are at rest, Reflecting back in every hue and tint,
Purple and crimson, orange and bright gold, The sunny smile with which Morn hails the world. Beneath me all is quiet yet and calm, For the dim shadow of the silent night Still rests upon the valley, still the flock Sleeps undisturbed within the guarded fold, The lark yet slumbers in her lowly nest, The dew hangs heavy upon leaf and blade, The gray mist still o'erveils the unruffled lake, And all is tranquil as an infant's sleep; Tranquil around me, but not so within, For in my breast a thousand restless thoughts Conflict in wild, chaotical confusion. Thoughts of long bygone years, and things that were But are no more, and thoughts that sternly strive To grapple with the mysteries I late Have looked upon; for I, since yesternight, Have traversed the wide sea of space that rolls Between the shores of this and other worlds; Have gazed upon and scanned those worlds, or shades That wear the lineaments of such; have seen The damned in their own place, and marked the deep, Terrific retribution Error brings To such as are her votaries in life. And now I feel how baseless was my hope That Peace, the solitary boon I crave, Might spring from knowledge. Tis a fatal tree, Which ever hath borne bitter fruit, since first 'Twas set in Paradise. But I must seek The cottage of some honest mountaineer, Who may afford me nurture and repose, For I am weary, both in mind and frame. [Exit.