A harp that tuneful prelude made
To a voice of thrilling power.

The measure, simple truth to tell,
Was fit for some gay throng;
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.

When silent were both voice and chords,
The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet,- for English words
Had fallen upon the ear.

It was a breezy hour of eve;

And pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,
Clothed with innocuous fire;

But, where we stood, the setting sun
Showed little of his state;
And, if the glory reached the Nun,
'Twas through an iron grate.

Not always is the heart unwise,
Nor pity idly born,

If even a passing Stranger sighs
For them who do not mourn.
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove,
Captive, whoe'er thou be!
Oh! what is beauty, what is love,
And opening life to thee?

Such feeling pressed upon my soul,
A feeling sanctified

By one soft trickling tear that stole
From the Maiden at my side;
Less tribute could she pay than this,
Borne gaily o'er the sea,

Fresh from the beauty and the bliss
Of English liberty?

V.

AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

A WINGED Goddess--clothed in vesture wrought
Of rainbow colours; One whose port was bold,
Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold
The glittering crowns and garlands which it
brought-

Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot.
She vanished; leaving prospect blank and cold
Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled
In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot,
And monuments that soon must disappear:
Yet a dread local recompence we found;
While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot-
zeal

Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should feel
With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near,
And horror breathing from the silent ground!

VI.

BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE.

WHAT lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose?

Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains,

War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains

Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews?
The Morn, that now, along the silver MEUSE,
Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains

IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF THE
RHINE.

AMID this dance of objects sadness steals
O'er the defrauded heart-while sweeping by,
As in a fit of Thespian jollity,

Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels:

Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels
The venerable pageantry of Time,
Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime,
And what the Dell unwillingly reveals
Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied
Near the bright River's edge. Yet why repine?
To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze-
Such sweet way-faring-of life's spring the
pride,

Her summer's faithful joy-that still is mine,
And in fit measure cheers autumnal days.

X.

HYMN,

FOR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH THE
RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE OF
BERG.

JESU! bless our slender Boat,

By the current swept along; Loud its threatenings-let them not Drown the music of a song Breathed thy mercy to implore, Where these troubled waters roar ! Saviour, for our warning, seen

HEIDEL

Bleeding on that precious Rood;
If, while through the meadows green
Gently wound the peaceful flood,
We forgot Thee, do not Thou
Disregard thy Suppliants now!
Hither, like yon ancient Tower
Watching o'er the River's bed,
Fling the shadow of thy power,

Else we sleep among the dead;
Thou who trod'st the billowy sea,
Shield us in our jeopardy!

Guide our Bark among the waves;

Through the rocks our passage smooth; Where the whirlpool frets and raves Let thy love its anger soothe : All our hope is placed in Thee; Miserere Domine!

X1.

THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE.

NOT, like his great Compeers, indignantly
Doth DANUBE spring to life! The wandering
Stream

(Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's gleam
Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee
Slips from his prison walls and Fancy, free
To follow in his track of silver light,
Mounts on rapt wing, and with a moment's flight
Hath reached the encincture of that gloomy sea
Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to meet
In conflict; whose rough winds forgot their jars
To waft the heroic progeny of Greece;
When the first Ship sailed for the Golden
Fleece-

ARGO-exalted for that daring feat

To fix in heaven her shape distinct with stars.

XII. ON APPROACHING THE STAUB-BACH, LAUTERBRUNNEN.

UTTERED by whom, or how inspired - designed For what strange service, does this concert reach

Our ears, and near the dwellings of mankind,
Mid fields familiarized to human speech?--
No Mermaids warble-to allay the wind
Driving some vessel toward a dangerous beach-
More thrilling melodies; Witch answering

Witch,

To chant a love-spell, never intertwined
Notes shrill and wild with art more musical:
Alas! that from the lips of abject Want
Or Idleness in tatters mendicant
The strain should flow-free Fancy to enthral,
And with regret and useless pity haunt

This bold, this bright, this sky-born WATER

FALL!

Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was Captain-General of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the flagitious and too successful attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate their country.

AROUND a wild and woody hill
A gravelled pathway treading.

We reached a votive Stone that bears
The name of Aloys Reding.

Well judged the Friend who placed it there
For silence and protection;
And haply with a finer care
Of dutiful affection.

The Sun regards it from the West;
And, while in summer glory
He sets, his sinking yields a type
Of that pathetic story:

And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss
Amid the grove to linger:

Till all is dim, save this bright Stone
Touched by his golden finger.

XV.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS.
DOOMED as we are our native dust
To wet with many a bitter shower,
It ill befits us to disdain

The altar, to deride the fane,
Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust
To win a happier hour.

I love, where spreads the village lawn,
Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze :
Hail to the firm unmoving cross,
Aloft, where pines their branches toss!
And to the chapel far withdrawn,
That lurks by lonely ways!

Where'er we roam-along the brink
Of Rhine-or by the sweeping Po,
Through Alpine vale, or champain wide,
Whate'er we look on, at our side

Be Charity!-to bid us think, And feel, if we would know.

XVI.

AFTER-THOUGHT.

OH Life! without thy chequered scene
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe,
Success and failure, could a ground
For magnanimity be found;

For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene?
Or whence could virtue flow?

Pain entered through a ghastly breach-
Nor while sin lasts must effort cease;
Heaven upon earth's an empty boast;
But, for the bowers of Eden lost,
Mercy has placed within our reach
A portion of God's peace.

XVII.

SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ.

"WHAT know we of the Blest above
But that they sing and that they love?"
Yet, if they ever did inspire

A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir,
Now, where those harvest Damsels float
Homeward in their rugged Boat,
(While all the ruffling winds are fled-
Each slumbering on some mountain's head)
Now, surely, hath that gracious aid
Been felt, that influence is displayed.
Pupils of Heaven, in order stand
The rustic Maidens, every hand
Upon a Sister's shoulder laid,—
To chant, as glides the boat along
A simple, but a touching, song;
To chant, as Angels do above,
The melodies of Peace in love!

XVIII.

ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS.
FOR gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes
The work of Fancy from her willing hands;
And such a beautiful creation makes
As renders needless spells and magic wands,
And for the boldest tale belief commands.
When first mine eyes beheld that famous Hill
The sacred ENGELBERG, celestial Bands,
With intermingling motions soft and still,
Hung round its top, on wings that changed
their hues at will.

Clouds do not name those Visitants; they were
The very Angels whose authentic lays,
Sung from that heavenly ground in middle air,
Made known the spot where piety should raise
A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise.
Resplendent Apparition! if in vain

My ears did listen, 'twas enough to gaze;
And watch the slow departure of the train,
Whose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted to
detain.

XIX.

OUR LADY OF THE SNOW.

MEEK Virgin Mother, more benign
Than fairest Star, upon the height
Of thy own mountain,* set to keep
Lone gils through the hours of sleep,
* Mount Righi.

What eye can look upon thy shrine
Untroubled at the sight?

These crowded offerings as they hang
In sign of misery relieved,

Even these, without intent of theirs,
Report of comfortless despairs,
Of many a deep and cureless pang
And confidence deceived.

To Thee, in this aërial cleft,
As to a common centre, tend
All sufferers that no more rely
On mortal succour-all who sigh
And pine, of human hope berest,
Nor wish for earthly friend.

And hence, O Virgin Mother mild!
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,
Not only from the dreary strife
Of Winter, but the storms of life,
Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled,
OUR LADY OF THE SNOW.

Even for the Man who stops not here,
But down the irriguous valley hies,
Thy very name, O Lady! flings,
O'er blooming fields and gushing springs
A tender sense of shadowy fear,
And chastening sympathies !

Nor falls that intermingling shade
To summer-gladsomeness unkind :
It chastens only to requite

With gleams of fresher, purer, light;
While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade,
More sweetly breathes the wind.
But on!-a tempting downward way,
A verdant path before us lies;
Clear shines the glorious sun above;
Then give free course to joy and love,
Deeming the evil of the day
Sufficient for the wise.

XX.

EFFUSION,

IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER OF TELL, AT ALTORF.

This Tower stands upon the spot where grew the Linden Tree against which his Son is said to have been placed, when the Father's archery was put to proof under circumstances so famous in Swiss Story.

WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here,

Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow
On Marathonian valour, yet the tear

Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show,

While narrow cares their limits overflow.
Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old,
Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go
Home-ward or school-ward, ape what ye behold
Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold!
And when that calm Spectatress from on high
Looks down-the bright and solitary Moon,
Who never gazes but to beautify:

And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune
That fosters peace, and gentleness recals;
Then might the passing Monk receive a boon
Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls,
While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing
lustre falls.

How blest the souls who when their trials come
Yield not to terror or despondency,

But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom,
Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he
Expectant stands beneath the linden tree:
He quakes not like the timid forest game,
But smiles-the hesitating shaft to free;
Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim,
And to his Father give its own unerring aim.

XXI.

THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ.

By antique Fancy trimmed-though lowly, bred
To dignity-in thee, O SCHWYTZ! are seen
The genuine features of the golden mean;
Equality by Prudence governèd,
Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead;
And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, serene
As that of the sweet fields and meadows green
In unambitious compass round thee spread.
Majestic BERNE, high on her guardian steep,
Holding a central station of command,
Might well be styled this noble body's HEAD,
Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrenchments
deep,

mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon elaborately-sculptured marble lying on the ground, records that the Fort had been erected by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of Philip the Third; and the Chapel, about twenty years after, by one of his Descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet standing, and a considerable part of the Chapel walls a smooth green turf has taken place of the pavement, and we could see no trace of altar or image; but everywhere something to remind one of former splendour, and of devastation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with

bushes: near the ruins were some ill tended, but growing willingly; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike covered or the rose-coloured pink was growing in great adorned with a variety of flowers, among which beauty. While descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the ruined Chapel, a jured by the explosion that had driven it so far statue of a Child in pure white marble, unindown the hill. "How little," we exclaimed, "are these things valued here! Could we but transport this pretty Image to our own garden!'

XXII.

one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years.-Extract from Journal.

TOP OF THE PASS OF ST GOTHARD.

I LISTEN-but no faculty of mine Avails those modulations to detect, Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect With tenderest passion; leaving him to pine (So fame reports) and die,-his sweet-breath'd kine

Remembering, and green Alpine pastures

decked

With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject
The tale as fabulous.-Here while I recline,
Mindful how others by this simple Strain
Are moved, for me-upon this Mountain named
Of God himself from dread pre-eminence-
Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed,
Yield to the Music's touching influence;
And joys of distant home my heart enchain.

XXIII.

FORT FUENTES.

The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rocky eminence that rises from the plain at the head of the lake of Como, commanding views up the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direction is characterised by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced at being favoured with a distinct view of those Alpine heights; not, as we had expected from the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion with clouds floating or stationary-scatterings from heaven. The ruin is interesting both in

* Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of the French Invasion), had elapsed, when, for the first time, foreign soldiers were seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, to impose 'Ipon it the laws of their governors.

phurous blast,

This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone So far from the holy enclosure was cast,

To couch in this thicket of brambles alone; To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm Of his half-open hand pure from blemish or And the green, gilded snake, without troubling speck;

the calm

Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his neck;

Where haply (kind service to Piety due!)

When winter the grove of its mantle bereaves, Some bird (like our own honoured redbreast) may strew

The desolate Slumberer with moss and with leaves.

FUENTES once harboured the good and the brave,

Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown;

Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave While the thrill of her fifes thro' the mountains was blown :

Now

gads the wild vine o'er the pathless

ascent ;

When the whirlwind of human destruction is O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway,

spent,

Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away!

XXIV.

THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO.

This Church was almost destroyed by lightning a few years ago, but the altar and the

image of the Patron Saint were untouched. The Mount, upon the summit of which the Church is built, stands amid the intricacies of the Lake of Lugano; and is, from a hundred points of view, its principal ornament, rising to the height of 2000 feet, and, on one side, nearly perpendicular. The ascent is toilsome; but the traveller who performs it will be amply rewarded. Splendid fertility, rich woods and dazzling waters, seclusion and confinement of view contrasted with sealike extent of plain fading into the sky; and this again, in an opposite quarter, with an horizon of the loftiest and boldest Alps-unite in composing a prospect more diversified by magnificence, beauty, and sublimity, than perhaps any other point in Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, commands.

THOU Sacred Pile! whose turrets rise
From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage,
Guarded by lone San Salvador;
Sink (if thou must) as heretofore,
To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice.
But ne'er to human rage!

On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned
To rest the universal Lord:

Why leap the fountains from their cells
Where everlasting Bounty dwells?—
That, while the Creature is sustained,
His God may be adored.

Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times-
Let all remind the soul of heaven;
Our slack devotion needs them all;
And Faith-so oft of sense the thrall,
While she, by aid of Nature, climbs-
May hope to be forgiven.

Glory, and patriotic Love,

And all the Pomps of this frail "spot

Which men call Earth," have yearned to

seek,

Associate with the simply meek,
Religion in the sainted grove,
And in the hallowed grot.
Thither, in time of adverse shocks,

Of fainting hopes and backward wills,
Did mighty Tell repair of old-
A Hero cast in Nature's mould,
Deliverer of the stedfast rocks
And of the ancient hills!
He, too, of battle martyrs chief!
Who, to recal his daunted peers,
For victory shaped an open space,
By gathering with a wide embrace,
Into his single breast, a sheaf
Of fatal Austrian spears."

XXV.

THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS

GOATHERD.

PART I.
I.

Now that the farewell tear is dried,
Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide!

*Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of Sempach, broke an Austrian phalanx in this manner,

Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!
Whether for London bound-to trill
Thy mountain notes with simple skill;
Or on thy head to poise a show
Of Images in seemly row;

The graceful form of milk-white Steed,
Or Bird that soared with Ganymede;
Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear
The sightless Milton, with his hair
Around his placid temples curled;
And Shakspeare at his side-a freight,
If clay could think and mind were weight,
For him who bore the world!
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!

My Song, encouraged by the grace

That beams from his ingenuous face,
For this Adventurer scruples not

To prophesy a golden lot;

Due recompence, and safe return
TO COмO's steeps-his happy bourne !
Where he, aloft in garden glade,

Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid,
The towering maize, and prop the twig
That ill supports the luscious fig;
Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof
With purple of the trellis-roof,
That through the jealous leaves escapes
From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes.
-Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child
To share his wanderings! him whose look
Even yet my heart can scarcely brook,
So touchingly he smiled-

As with a rapture caught from heaven-
For unasked alms in pity given.

PART II.

I.

WITH nodding plumes, and lightly drest
Like foresters in leaf-green vest,
The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground
For Tell's dread archery renowned,
Before the target stood-to claim
The guerdon of the steadiest aim.
Loud was the rifle-gun's report-
A startling thunder quick and short!
But, flying through the heights around
Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound