The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, 100 Quickening my truant feet across the lawn; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here, 105 And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams! Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 135 Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed 155 Whose This truth once known-To bless is to 125 We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silvergray) every word enlightened and endeared; In age beloved, in poverty revered; Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit 160 When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, 130 And sighed to think that little was no more, WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone, The fairy isles fled far away; That with its woods and uplands green, Where shepherd huts are dimly seen, And songs are heard at close of day; 15 That too, the deer's wild covert, fled, And that, the asylum of the dead: While, as the boat went merrily, Much of Rob Roy the boat-man told; His arm that fell below his knee, 20 His cattle-ford and mountain-hold. Tarbat, thy shore I climbed at last; 25 Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He who fills Night fell; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o'er the glimmering waves we flew; The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. 35 And now the grampus, half-descried, Black and huge above the tide; The cliffs and promontories there, Front to front, and broad and bare; Each beyond each, with giant feet 40 Advancing as in haste to meet; 45 The shattered fortress, whence the Dane When day springs upward from the deep The prow wakes splendor; and the oar, 50 Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIMEA 1812 Shepherd, or huntsman, or worn mariner, Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arched, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse, 5 This iron cup chained for the general use, And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, 'Twas here she turned from her beloved sire, To see his face no more. Oh, if thou canst, 10 ('Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers; 5 And with a drop of this sweet water fill The two small cells scooped in the marble there, That birds may come and drink upon his grave, Making it holy1 "Say, what remains when Hope is fled?" At Embsay rung the matin bell, His voice was heard no more! As through the mist he winged his way, 20 (A cloud that hovers night and day,) The hound hung back, and back he drew The master and his merlin3 too. 25 That narrow place of noise and strife There now the matin bell is rung; 30 Thou didst not shudder when the sword Sit now and answer, groan for groan. Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping; Of those who would not be consoled 40 When red with blood the river rolled. Hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky, Yet visible, when on my way I went, Glad to be gone, a pilgrim from the North, 5 Now more and more attracted as I drew Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan Had from his window leant, drowsy, half-clad, To snuff the morn, or the caged lark poured forth, From his green sod upspringing as to heaven, 10 (His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song Old in the days of Homer, and his wings With transport quivering) on my way I went, Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily, Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut; 15 As on that Sabbath eve when he arrived,1 Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee, Such virtue dwells in those small syllables, Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street, His birth-place,-when, but one short step too late, 20 In his despair, as though the die were cast, He flung him down to weep, and wept till dawn; Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world. 'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it. Yet at a city gate, from time to time, 25 Much may be learnt; nor, London, least at thine, Thy hive the busiest, greatest of them all, a youth, Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power, 30 A Chatterton-in thought admired, caressed, And crowned like Petrarch in the Capitol; 1 Jean Jacques Rousseau, who visited Geneva, his birthplace, in 1754. He had left there in 1728, when sixteen years of age. Less feverish, less exalted-soon to part, 35 A Garrick and a Johnson; Wealth and Fame Awaiting one, even at the gate; Neglect And Want the other. But what multitudes, Urged by the love of change, and, like myself, Adventurous, careless of tomorrow's fare, 40 Press on-though but a rill entering the sea, Entering and lost! Our task would never end. Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave, If such they might be called, dashed as in sport, 45 Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach Making wild music, and far westward caught The sunbeam-where, alone and as en- Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff 50 On the bright waters. When the heart of man Is light with hope, all things are sure to please; And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by, Laden with peasant girls and fruits and flowers And many a chanticleer and partlet1 caged 55 For Vevey's market place-a motley group Seen through the silvery haze. But soon So dead to all things in this visible world, 60 So wondrously profound, as to move on In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old2 (His name is justly in the Calendar3), Who through the day pursued this pleasant path That winds beside the mirror of all beauty, 65 And, when at eve his fellow pilgrims sate, Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was. They marvelled as they might; and so must all, Seeing what now I saw : for now 'twas day, And the bright sun was in the firmament, 70 A thousand shadows of a thousand hues Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Thy seas of ice and ice-built promon- That change their shapes forever as in sport; 75 Then travelled onward and went down behind The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe Borne homeward through the forest in his hand; And, on the edge of some o'erhanging cliff, 80 That dungeon-fortress1 never to be named, Where, like a lion taken in the toils, Toussaint breathed out his brave and Boy, call the Gondola; the sun is set. 5 So light of heart, laughing she knew not why, Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept. From time to time I waked her; but the boat Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now (Less fortunate, if love be happiness) No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm, I went alone beneath the silent moon; 35 Thy square, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces, Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on, Melting away, an emblem of themselves. Those porches passed, thro' which the water-breeze Plays, though no longer on the noble forms 40 That moved there, sable-vested-and the quay, Silent, grass-grown-adventurer-like I launched Into the deep, ere long discovering brake, 45 The musky odor of the serpents came; Their slimy tract across the woodman's path Bright in the moonshine; and, as round Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves I listened to the venerable pines 50 Then in close converse, and, if right I guessed, Delivering many a message to the winds, In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida. Nor when again in Venice, when again In that strange place, so stirring and so still, 55 Where nothing comes to drown the human voice But music, or the dashing of the tide, Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate 60 A serenade broke silence, breathing hope Thro' walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, (It was before an old Palladian house, As between night and day we floated by) 65 A gondolier lay singing; and he sung, As in the time when Venice was herself, Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars We rested; and the verse was verse divine! We could not err-perhaps he was the last 70 For none took up the strain, none answered him; And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear The moon went down; and nothing |