The Diary of an Ennuyée | Page 7

beautifully blue;"
it would have shocked English eyes as an exaggeration, or rather
impossibility.
THE PANORAMA OF LAUSANNE.
Now blest for ever be that heaven-sprung art Which can transport us in
its magic power From all the turmoil of the busy crowd, From the gay
haunts where pleasure is ador'd, 'Mid the hot sick'ning glare of pomp

and light; And fashion worshipp'd by a gaudy throng Of heartless
idlers--from the jarring world And all its passions, follies, cares, and
crimes-- And bids us gaze, even in the city's heart, On such a scene as
this! O fairest spot! If but the pictured semblance, the dead image Of
thy majestic beauty, hath a power To wake such deep delight; if that
blue lake, Over whose lifeless breast no breezes play, Those mimic
mountains robed in purple light, Yon painted verdure that but seems to
glow, Those forms unbreathing, and those motionless woods, A
beauteous mockery all--can ravish thus, What would it be, could we
now gaze indeed Upon thy living landscape? could we breathe Thy
mountain air, and listen to thy waves, As they run rippling past our feet,
and see That lake lit up by dancing sunbeams--and Those light leaves
quivering in the summer air; Or linger some sweet eve just on this spot
Where now we seem to stand, and watch the stars Flash into splendour,
one by one, as night Steals over yon snow-peaks, and twilight fades
Behind the steeps of Jura! here, O here! 'Mid scenes where Genius,
Worth and Wisdom dwelt,[D] Which fancy peopled with a glowing
train Of most divine creations--Here to stray With one most cherished,
and in loving eyes Read a sweet comment on the wonders round--
Would this indeed be bliss? would not the soul Be lost in its own
depths? and the full heart Languish with sense of beauty unexprest,
And faint beneath its own excess of life?
Saturday.--Quitted Geneva, and slept at St. Maurice. I was ill during
the last few days of our stay, and therefore left Geneva with the less
regret. I suffer now so constantly, that a day tolerably free from pain
seems a blessing for which I can scarce be sufficiently thankful. Such
was yesterday.
Our road lay along the south bank of the lake, through Evian, Thonon,
St. Gingough: and on the opposite shores we had in view successively,
Lausanne, Vevai, Clarens, and Chillon. A rain storm pursued, or almost
surrounded us the whole morning; but we had the good fortune to
escape it. We travelled faster than it could pursue, and it seemed to
retire before us as we approached. The effect was surprisingly beautiful;
for while the two extremities of the lake were discoloured and
enveloped in gloom, that part opposite to us was as blue and

transparent as heaven itself, and almost as bright. Over Vevai, as we
viewed it from La Meillerie, rested one end of a glorious rainbow: the
other extremity appeared to touch the bosom of the lake, and shone
vividly against the dark mountains above Chillon. La Meillerie--Vevai!
what magic in those names! and O what a power has genius to hallow
with its lovely creations, scenes already so lavishly adorned by Nature!
it was not, however, of St. Preux I thought, as I passed under the rock
of the Meillerie. Ah! how much of happiness, of enjoyment, have I lost,
in being forced to struggle against my feelings, instead of abandoning
myself to them! but surely I have done right. Let me repeat it again and
again to myself, and let that thought, if possible, strengthen and console
me.
Monday.--I have resolved to attempt no description of scenery; but my
pen is fascinated. I must note a few of the objects which struck me
to-day and yesterday, that I may at will combine them hereafter to my
mind's eye, and recall the glorious pictures I beheld, as we travelled
through the Vallais to Brig: the swollen and turbid (no longer "blue and
arrowy") Rhone, rushing and roaring along; the gigantic mountains in
all their endless variety of fantastic forms, which enclosed us
round,--their summits now robed in curling clouds, and then, as the
winds swept them aside, glittering in the sunshine; the little villages
perched like eagles' nests on the cliffs, far, far above our heads; the
deep rocky channels through which the torrents had madly broken a
way, tearing through every obstacle till they reached the Rhone, and
marking their course with devastation; the scene of direful ruin at
Martigny; the cataracts gushing, bounding from the living rock and
plunging into some unseen abyss below; even the shrubs and the fruit
trees which in the wider parts of the valley bordered the road side; the
vines, the rich scarlet barberries, the apples and pears which we might
have