That flit above him with their transient shades, And storm-deriding rocks, and treacherous snows, And blessed sunlight, in his dying eye
Float dubious; and 'tis midnight at his heart!
Mountain, That firm and ardent Genevese,
The enthusiast child of science, whose bold foot
Bounded across thine ice-rents, who disdain'd
The frozen outworks of thy steep ravines,
And through a labyrinth of crystal rocks
Press'd his untired ascent, e'en he, and all
His iron band of native mountaineers,
While scaling the aerial cupola
Of Nature's Temple, own'd a breathless pang.
Thy most attenuate element is fit
For angel roamings. True, his zealous mind
Achieved its philosophic aim, and mark'd
And measured thee; but turn'd to earthly climes
Full soon, and bent in gladness toward the vale.
Mountain,-The sons of science or of taste
Need not essay such triumph. 'Tis more wise
And happier-till a fiery chariot wait,—
To scan from lesser lights thy glorious whole;
To climb above the deep though lofty plain
That wrongs thee; pass its line of envious peaks,
And station'd at thy cross, sublime Flegere!
Thence meditate the monarch's grandeur; while
His host of subject hills are spread beneath;
For scarce, till then, his own colossal might
Seems disenthrall'd; and mute astonishment,
Unquench'd by doubt or dread, at each new step,
Shall own his aspect more celestial still.
There, in some hollow nook reclining, whence
The bright-eyed chamois sprang; with tufted bells
Of rhododendron blushing at my feet;
The unprofaned recess of Alpine life
Were all my world that hour; and the vast mount
In his lone majesty would picture heaven.
Bright mountain,—Ah! but volumed clouds enwrap
Thy broad foundations, curtain all thy steeps,
And, rising as the orb of day declines,
Brood on the vassal chain that flank thee round,
Then thy whole self involve-save, haply, when
A quick and changing vista may reveal
Some spotless portion of thy front, and show
Thee not unstable, like the earthborn cloud,
Brilliant though hid, abiding if unseen.
Then, as the vale grows darker, and the sun
Deserts unnumber'd hills, o'er that high zone
Of gather'd vapour thou dost sudden lift
Thy silver brow, calm as the hour of eve,
Clear as the morning, still as the midnight,
More beautiful than noon; for lo! the sun
Lingers to greet thee with a roseate ray,
And on thy silver brow his bright farewell
Is gleaming:- Mountain, thou art half divine!
Sever'd from earth! Irradiate from heaven!
Thus e'en the taught of heaven, with joyless eye
Fix'd on the sable clouds which fear hath cast
O'er all the landscape of his destiny,
May fail to pierce them; but, though legion'd shapes
Of nether evil, though the deep array
Of stern adversities, and murky hosts
Of dark illusions blot his upper skies,
Yet, as they change, through that incumbent gloom
Shall he catch glimpses of the hallow'd mount,
And weep that heaven is bright.-And at the hour
Of stillness, when e’en frightful shadows fade,
When night seems closing o'er his latest hopes,
And his sun set for ever, then, behold,
Emerging in mid heaven, thy glistening top,
O Zion! and the God that ruled his day
Hath not departed; for he poureth now
His radiance on thy summits, glancing back
A thrilling flood into his servant's soul!
"Joy full of glory!"-Was the noonday dark?
It was ;-but eve is cloudless; night is peace;
Rapture shall gild the never-ending morn!
There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary,
And many as frank and free,
And a few as fair;
But the summer air
Is not more sweet to me, Mary.
I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary,
And thy dimm'd and gentle eye;
And I've call'd on thy name
When the night winds came,
And heard my heart reply, Mary.
Be thou but true to me, Mary,
And I'll be true to thee,
And at set of sun,
When my task is done,
Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary.
BY S. T. COLERIDGE.
OH, leave the lily on its stem,
Oh, leave the rose upon the spray, Oh, leave the elder-bloom, fair maids, And listen to my lay.
A cypress and a myrtle bough
This morn around my harp you twined, Because it fashion'd mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
And now a tale of love and woe,
A woeful tale of love I sing;
Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs,
And trembles on the string.
But most, my own dear Genevieve,
It sighs and trembles most for thee! Oh, come and hear what cruel wrongs Befell the dark ladie.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve;
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that made her grieve.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oh, ever in my waking dreams
I dwell upon that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I sat,
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve.
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the arm'd knight;
She stood and listen'd to my harp
Amid the lingering light.
I play'd a sad and doleful air,
I sung an old and moving story; An old rude song, that fitted well The ruins wild and hoary.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace,
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the knight who wore
Upon his shield a burning brand!
And how for ten long years he woo'd
The ladie of the land.
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