Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man | The stillness of their aspect in each trace May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Its clear depth yields of their far height and Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that

plain;
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host,
A bony heap, through ages to remain,
Themselves their monument; the Stygian

coast

hue:

There is too much of man here, to look
through
With a fit mind the might which I behold;
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than
of old,
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me
in their fold.

Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each
wandering ghost.
While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies,
Morat and Marathon twin-names shall stand, To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;
They were true Glory's stainless victories, | All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
Won by the unambitious heart and hand
Of a prond, 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 Dra-
conic clause.

Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil
Of our infection, till too late and long
We may deplore and struggle with the coil,
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong
'Midst a contentious world, striving where
none are strong.

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
In fatal penitence, and in the blight
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears,
And colour 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.

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,
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to
inflict or bear?

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.

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life:
I look upon the peopled desart 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, | Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as But of ideal beauty, which became
the blast
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distemper'd though

They might have used it better, but, allured | Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven,
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt That in our aspirations to be great,
On one another; pity ceased to melt Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
With her once natural charities. But they, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
Who in oppression's darkness caved had A beauty and a mystery, and create
dwelt,
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named
themselves a star.

They were not eagles,nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

The heart's bleed longest and but heal to

A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honour 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
prayer!

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

And storm, and darkness, ye are wond'rous
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,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her

aloud!

parted

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.

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

In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken- | And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd
fittingly.

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

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 them-Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above The very Glaciers have his colours caught, And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought

selves to wage.

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.

In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

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 those 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.

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,

Yet, peace be with their ashes,-for by them,

And the world's waste, have driven him far If merited, the penalty is paid;
from those,

For 'tis 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!