XCIX.

Clarens! sweet Clarens[339] birthplace of deep Love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate Thought; Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above,[kk] The very Glaciers have his colours caught, And Sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought[21.B.] By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,[kl] The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the Soul with Hope that woos, then mocks.