If Helvetia has seen you amid her wild scenes,

Feel the pleasure that knows no alloy;

And her hills and dark forests, her rocks and ravines,
Have transported your senses with joy :-

Then hasten with me to those scenes once again,

We will clamber together the steep;

We will tread the rude path, and look down on the glen, Where the torrent rolls rapid and deep.

The bright sunbeams are glancing amid the high trees,
And the forest has lost half its gloom;

O how sweet is the breath of the fresh mountain-breeze,
And the sight of the valley in bloom!

Now winds the rough road o'er the rude one-arch'd bridge,
Where the torrent rolls foaming below;

And St. Bernard far towering above the high ridge,
Lifts his hoary old summit of snow.

Can the wand'rer advance without feelings of dread, 'Mid the scenes that now crowd on his sight;

While the menacing cliffs bend and frown o'er his head, And the cataract pours on his right:

Where the pines of the forest are stunted and sere,

And the rugged road seldom is traced;

Where the rocks are all barren, the mountain all drear,

And the valley all desert and waste:

Where no music is heard but the shrill Alpine blast,

And the roar of the cataract's fall,

And the howl of the wolf for his savage repast,

And the echo that answers to all?

In a desert like this well might Piety's hand
Plant aloft the bright Sign of our faith;

For the Cross shall yet hallow this desolate land,
And yet cheer the worn wanderer's path.

But the snows gather round, and the sun has long ceas'd To enliven the comfortless day;

And the mist on the mountain's high top is increas'd

And half-choked is the torrent's rough way.

See the avalanche has fallen-it lies far and wide;
And how frightful the ruin it made,-

For it swept down in thunder the forest's high pride,
And the rock-crag how prostrate it laid!

And it roll'd on relentless, and buried the cot,
Which had shelter'd the poor mountaineer;

Nor has left to kind Pity a trace of the spot,
Where the snow might dissolve with her tear.

But the pine trees it shiver'd lie low in its wreck,
And the crags it brought down in its fall;
Attempted in vain the wild torrent to check,
For it foam'd and broke over them all.

It is past; but the scene is more frightful and drear:
Not a pine rises over the snow,

Not a point of the gray granite rock can appear

Not a floweret can flourish below.

And the traveller advances with caution and dread,

In his dubious and desolate way;

For who knows but the avalanche may burst o'er his head, Or the snow-cover'd gulf may betray?

Yet more steep is the mountain, more rude is the blast,
More keen, more benumbing the air;

Vegetation long since feebly bourgeon'd her last,
And around-all is death and despair.

Ev'n frozen and hush'd is the torrent's loud foam,
And the cascade is dashing no more';

The wild chamois alone will here venture to roam,
And the glacier yet dare to explore.

Every track is long lost of the steep narrow way,
And how dreadful, how thrilling to think,
That the traveller unknowing might fatally stray,
Where the snow hides the precipice' brink!

And his senses are numb'd by the chill mountain air,
And a stupor invites to repose:

But resist, weary pilgrim! 'tis death lays the snare,
And would sink thee a grave in the snows.

Yet advance for a while, and the danger is past,

For St. Bernard's bleak summit is nigh,

Where, tho' beats the dread tempest, and roars the rude blast His white front looks unhurt to the sky.

The high summit is gain'd, and fair Charity's hand,

Has invited the wanderer in:

Who would hope she could dwell in this desolate land,

Where no creature, no comfort is seen?

But the mountain's high summit no longer is drear,
By Religion and Charity blest;

Hospitality ventures to smile even here,

And to soothe the worn traveller to rest.

HAIL, gentle Winds! I love your murmuring sound;

The willows charm me, wavering to and fro;

And oft I stretch me on the daisied ground,
To see you crimp the wrinkled flood below:
Delighted more as brisker gusts succeed

And give the landscape round a sweeter grace,
Sweeping in shaded waves the ripening mead,
Puffing their rifled fragrance in my face.
Painters of Nature! ye are doubly dear

Her children dearly love your whispering charms:
Ah, ye have murmur'd sweet to many an ear
That now lies dormant in Death's icy arms,

Aud at this moment many a weed ye wave,
That hides the bard in the forgotten grave.

BARTON.

YE viewless Minstrels of the sky!
I marvel not in times gone by
That ye were deified :
For, even in this later day,

To me oft has your power, or play,

Unearthly thoughts supplied.

Awful your power! when by your might,
You heave the wild waves, crested white,
Like mountains in your wrath !
Ploughing between them valleys deep,
Which, to the seaman rous'd from sleep,
Yawn like Death's op'ning path!

Graceful your play! when, round the
bower

Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower,
To wreathe her dark locks there,
Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe
The leaves between, flit round that wreath,
And stir her silken hair.

Still, thoughts like these are but of earth,
And you can give far loftier birth:-

Ye come !-we know not whence!
Ye go!-can mortals trace your flight?
All imperceptible to sight;
Though audible to sense.