'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise, More mighty spots may rise-more glaring shine; But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft,-the glories of old days, LXI.

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them fall.

LXII.

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche-the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appalls, Gather around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.

LXIII.

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,— Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain; Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument;-the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost.*

LXIV.

While Waterloo with Cannæ's carnage vies,
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand;
They were true Glory's stainless victories,
Won by the unambitious heart and hand
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,

All unbought champions in no princely cause
Of vice-entail'd Corruption; they no land
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic
clause.

LXV.

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days;
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze
Of one to stone converted by amaze,

the river with those feelings which the events of the last fifteen years at once called up. Prince Schwartzenberg rode up to know the cause of this sudden stop; then they gave three cheers, rushed after the enemy, and drove them into the water.

*The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones diminished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in the service of France; who anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the Burgundians for ages (all who passed that way removing a bone to their own country), and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postilions, who carried them off to sell for knife-handles; a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had rendered them in great request. Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much as may have made a quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer by might have perverted them to worse uses than the careful preservation which I intend for them.

+ Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of Helvetia, where Avenches now stands.

Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a vain endeavor to save her father, condemned to death as a traitor by Aulus Cæcina. Her epitaph was discovered many years ago;-it is thus:-"Julia Alpinula: Hic jaceo. Infelicis patris infelix proles. Deæ Aventiæ Sacerdos. Exorare patris necem non potui; Male mori in fatis ille erat. Vixi annos XXII."-I know of no human composition so affecting as this, nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with all the nausea consequent on such intoxication.

8 This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3, 1816), which even at this distance dazzles mine.-(July 20.) I this day observed for some time the distant reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentière in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat; the distance of these mountains from their mirror is sixty miles.

Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And color things to come with hues of Night; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness: on the sea The boldest steer but where their ports invite; But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.

LXXI.

Is it not better, then, to be alone,

And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,*
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
A fair but froward infant her own care,
Kissing its cries away as these awake;-
Is it not better thus our lives to wear,

Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for awhile-a passing guest, Where he became a being,-whose desire Was to be glorious; 't was a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest.

LXXVII.

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet he
knew

How to make madness beautiful, and cast

O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd

bear?

LXXII.

I live not in myself, but I become

Portion of that around me; and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture: I can see Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.

LXXIII.

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desert past, As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.

LXXIV.

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
From what it hates in this degraded form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm,-
When elements to elements conform,

And dust is as it should be, shall I not

Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?

The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?

LXXV.

fast.

LXXVIII.

His love was passion's essence-as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it

seems.

LXXIX.

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this
Invested her with all that 's wild and sweet;
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss t
Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet,
From hers, who but with friendship his would
meet;

But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast

Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.

LXXX.

His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice the kind,

'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.

But he was frenzied,-wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which skill could never find;

But he was frensied by disease or woe

And claim a kindred with you; for ye are

A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. LXXXIX.

All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,

But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:All heaven and earth are still: From the high host

Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast,
All is concentred in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense

Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

XC.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;

A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from self: it is a tone,

The soul and source of music, which makes known

Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,

Binding all things with beauty;-'t would disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

XCI.

Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak

Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak,
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r!

XCII.

The sky is changed!-and such a change! Oh night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,

XCIII.

And this is in the night :-Most glorious night Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 't is black,-and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

XCIV.

How, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between

Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-
hearted;

Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,

Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed:

Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters,-war within themselves to wage.

XCV.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,

The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand:
For here, not one, but many, make their play,
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around: of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath |
fork'd

His lightnings,-as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein
lurk'd,

XCVI.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye!
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful: the far roll
Of your departing voices, is the knoll

Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest.
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal?
Are ye like those within the human breast?

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

XCVII.

Could I embody and unbosom now

That which is most within me,-could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or
weak,

All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe into one word,
And that one word were Lightning, I would
speak;

But as it is, I live and die unheard,

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

XCVIII.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contain❜d no tomb,-
And glowing into day: we may resume
The march of our existence; and thus I,
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by

Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly.

XCIX.

Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;

Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above
The very Glaciers have his colors caught,
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks,
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.

C.

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains; where the god Is a pervading life and light,—-so shown Not on these summits solely nor alone In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.8

CI.

All things are here of him; from the black pines,
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines
Which slope his green path downward to the shore,
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore,
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it
stood,

Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.

CII.

A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-form'd and many-color'd things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than
words,

And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend

Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. CIII.

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore,
And make his heart a spirit; he who knows
That tender mystery, will love the more;
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes,
And the world's waste, have driven him far from
those,

For 't is his nature to advance or die;
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie
With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
The lord of irony,-that master-spell,

Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear,

And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

CVIII.

Yet, peace be with their ashes,-for by them,
If merited, the penalty is paid;

It is not ours to judge,-far less condemn;
The hour must come when such things shall be
made

Known unto all,-or hope and dread allay'd
By slumber, on one pillow,-in the dust,
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd;
And when it shall revive, as is our trust,
"T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.
CIX.

But let me quit man's works, again to read
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend
This page, which from my reveries I feed,
Until it seems prolonging without end.
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend,
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er
May be permitted, as my steps I bend

To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. CX.

Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages
Who glorify thy consecrated pages;

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still

The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quafling there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

CXI.

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
Renew'd with no kind auspices:-to feel
We are not what we have been, and to deem
We are not what we should be,-and to steel
The heart against itself; and to conceal,
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,—
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,-
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
Is a stern task of soul:-No matter,-it is taught.
CXII.

And for these words, thus woven into song,
It may be that they are a harmless wile,-
The coloring of the scenes which fleet along,
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth,-but I am not
So young as to regard men's frown or smile,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or forgot.

CXIII.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd

"If it be thus,

For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind."-Macbeth.

To its idolatries a patient knee,

Nor coin'd my cheek to smile,-nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and
still could,

Had I not filed * my mind, which thus itself subdued.

CXIV.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me,-
But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there may
be

Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive,

And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing; I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; † That two, or one, are almost what they seem,That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. CXV.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun; My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end;

I see thee not,-I hear thee not,-but none Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart,-when mine is cold,— A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

CXVI.

To aid thy mind's development,-to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,-to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,-wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,—
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
Yet this was in my nature:-as it is,

I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

CXVII.

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation, and a broken claim :
Though the grave closed between us,—'t were the
same,

I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain
My blood from out thy being were an aim,
And an attainment,-all would be in vain,—
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life
retain.

CXVIII.

The child of love, though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements,-and thine no less. As yet such are around thee,-but thy fire Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers!_O'er the sea And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me!

+ It is said by Rochefoucauld, that "there is always something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not displeas ing to them."

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