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Even so, by vestal Nature guarded, here
And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a wondrous victory renown'd, The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms, innumerable foes, When to those glorious fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead. For images of other worlds are there; Awful the light, and holy is the air. Uncertain through his fierce uncultured soul Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll; To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign.
And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, He holds with God himself communion high, where the dread peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofd temple of the eternal hills; Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; while needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air : —Great joy, by horror tamed, dilates his heart, And the near heavens their own delights impart. —when the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, Alps overlooking Alps their state up-swell; Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Storms, * Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms, In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red.
When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; That hut which from the hills his eyes employs So oft, the central point of all his joys. And as a swift, by tender cares opprest, Peeps often cre she dart into her nest, So to the untrodden floor, where round him looks His father, helpless as the babe he rocks, oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. There, safely guarded by the woods behind, ile hears the chiding of the baffled wind, 11ears winter, calling all his Terrors round, Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide Uustain'd by envy, disconteut, and pride.
The bound of all his vanity, to deck,
When the poor heart has all its joys resign'd, Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind Lo! where through flat liatavia's willowy groves, Or by the lazy Seine the exile roves; Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell, Unlocking tender thought's a memorial cell;n Past pleasures are transform'd to mortal pains, While poison spreads along the listener's veins, Poison which not a frame of steel can brave, Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave."
Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume!, Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn, And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return! Soon flies the little joy to man allow'd, And grief before him travels like a cloud: For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age, Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. — Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine Between interminable tracts of pine, A Temple stands; which holds an awful shrine,
By an uncertain light reveald, that falls
Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear,
* The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des Waches upon the Swiss troops.
Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain That views undimm'd Ensiedlen's wretched fane". Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torinent meet, Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet; While, loud and dull, ascends the weeping cry, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope–Oh, pass and leave it there. —The tall Sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire; Now let us meet the Pilgrims ere the day Close on the remnant of their weary way; While they are drawing toward the sacred floor Where the charm'd worm of pain shall gnaw no more. How Gaily murmur and how sweetly taste The fountains 2 rear'd for them amid the waste There some with tearful kiss each other greet, And some, with reverence, wash their toil-worn feet. Yes, I will see you when ye first behold Those holy turrets tipp'd with evening gold, In that glad moment when the hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast.
Last let us turn to where Chamouny 3 shields With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields; Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend. A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd, Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand. —Red stream the cottage-lights; the landscape fades, Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades. Alone ascends that Hill of matchless height,4 That holds no commerce with the summer Night. From age to age, amid his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; Mysterious havoc' but serene his brow, Where daylight lingers mid perpetual snow; Glitter the stars above, and all is black below.
At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh, When roar'd the sullen Arve in anger by, That not for thy reward, delicious Wale! Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; That thou, the slave of slaves, art doom'd to pine; Hard lot!—for no Italian arts are thine, To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine.
Beloved Freedom! were it mine to stray, With shrill winds roaring round my lonely way, O'er the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; In the wide range of many a varied round, Fleet as my passage was, I still have found
* This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multitudes, from every corner of the Catholic world, labouring under mental or bodily afflictions.
* Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the accommodation of the Pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain.
* This word is pronounced upon the spot Chamouny : I have taken the liberty of changing the accent.
• It is only from the higher part of the valley of Chamouny that Mont Blanc is visible.
That where despotic courts their gems display,
And oh! fair France! though now along the shade Where erst at will the grey-clad peasant stray'd, Gleam war's discordant vestments through the trees, And the red banner fluctuates in the breeze; Though martial songs have banish’d songs of love, And nightingales forsake the village grove, Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, Sole sound, the Sourd renews his mournful cry! —Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door: All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roam'd where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, When from October clouds a milder light Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white, Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crow'd with ear-piercing power till then unheard;
Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, Rock'd the charm'd thought in more delightful dreams;
Chasing those long, long dreams, the falling leaf
" An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire.
* The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so exorbitant, that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water carriage. were obliged to transport their goods by land.
Three years thus wandering, often have I view'd,
• These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise, Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knce, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. Hut, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why can he tarry yonder?–In our church-yard is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread And a few natural graves.” To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the lomely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that day, Employd in winter's work. Upon the stone His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest Child, who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air with back and forward steps. Towards the field in which the Parish Chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, while half an hour went by, the Priest had sent Many a long look of wonder ; and at last, Rosen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge or carded wool which the old man had piled | He laid his implements with gentle care, | Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path That from his cottage to the church-yard led, He took his way, impatient to accost | The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
1Joems founded on the 3ffections.
Have I.-She ceased, and weeping turn'd away;-
Of caves and trees:—and, when the regular wind
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
* This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imper
fect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr Gilbert, author of The Hurricane.