A blithe and blooming forester explored
Those loftier scenes Salvator's soul adored;
The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood,
And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood;
Nor shunn'd the track, unknown to human tread,
That downward to the night of caverns led;
Some ancient cataract's deserted bed.

High on exulting wind the heath-cock rose
And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows;
Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar,
Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodoar;
And through the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky,
Derwent's clear mirror charm'd his dazzled eye.
Each osier isle, inverted on the wave,
Through morn's gray mist its melting colours gave;
And o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove.
Light as the breeze that brush'd the orient dew,
From rock to rock the young adventurer flew ;
And day's last sunshine slept along the shore,
When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore.
Imbowering shrubs with verdure veil'd the sky,
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye;
Save when a bright and momentary gleam
Glanced from the white foam of some shelter'd

stream.

O'er the still lake the bell of evening toll'd,
And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold;
And on the green hill's side the meteor play'd,
When, hark! a voice sung sweetly through the
shade:

It ceased-yet still in Florio's fancy sung,
Still on each note his captive spirit hung;
Till o'er the mead a cool, sequester'd grot
From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot.
A crystal water cross'd the pebbled floor,
And on the front these simple lines it bore:

Hence away, nor dare intrude!
In this secret, shadowy cell
Musing Memory loves to dwell,
With her sister Solitude.

Far from the busy world she flies,
To taste that peace the world denies.
Entranced she sits; from youth to age,
Reviewing life's eventful page;
And noting, ere they fade away,
The little lines of yesterday.

Florio had gain'd a rude and rocky seat,
When lo, the genius of this still retreat!
Fair was her form-but who can hope to trace
The pensive softness of her angel face?
Can Virgil's verse, can Raphael's touch, impart
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tenderer tints that shun the careless eye,
And in the world's contagious climate die?

She left the cave, nor mark'd the stranger there;
Her pastoral beauty and her artless air
Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul!
In every nerve he felt her blest control!
What pure and white-wing'd agents of the sky,
Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy,
Inform congenial spirits when they meet?
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet!
Florio, with fearful joy, pursued the maid,
Till through a vista's moonlight-checker'd shade,

Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed,
(Their wars suspended, and their councils closed,)
An antique mansion burst in awful state,

A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate.
Nor paused he there. The master of the scene
Saw his light step imprint the dewy green;
And, slow advancing, hail'd him as his guest,
Won by the honest warmth his looks express'd.
He wore the rustic manners of a 'squire ;
Age had not quench'd one spark of manly fire;
But giant gout had bound him in her chain,
And his heart panted for the chase in vain.

Yet here remembrance, sweetly soothing power! Wing'd with delight confinement's lingering hour. The fox's brush still emulous to wear,

He scour'd the country in his elbow chair;
And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming hound,
That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round.

Long by the paddock's humble pale confined,
His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind:
And each, with glowing energy portray'd,
The far-famed triumphs of the field display'd;
Usurp'd the canvass of the crowded hall,
And chased a line of heroes from the wall.
There slept the horn each jocund echo knew,
And many a smile and many a story drew!
High o'er the hearth his forest trophies hung,
And their fantastic branches wildly flung.
How would he dwell on the vast antlers there!
These dash'd the wave, those fann'd the mountain

air.

All, as they frown'd, unwritten records bore
Of gallant feats and festivals of yore.

But why the tale prolong ?-His only child,
His darling Julia, on the stranger smiled.
Her little arts a fretful sire to please,
Her gentle gayety, and native ease

Had won his soul; and rapturous fancy shed
Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red.

But ah! few days had pass'd, ere the bright vision

fled!

When evening tinged the lake's ethereal blue,
And her deep shades irregularly threw;
Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove,
Down by Saint Herbert's consecrated grove;
Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper'd rite
Amused the fisher's solitary night:
And still the mitred window, richly wreathed,
A sacred calm through the brown foliage breathed.
The wild deer, starting through the silent glade,
With fearful gaze their various course survey'd.
High hung in air the hoary goat reclined,
His streaming beard the sport of every wind;
And, while the coot her jet wing loved to lave,
Rock'd on the bosom of the sleepless wave;
The eagle rush'd from Skiddaw's purple crest,
A cloud still brooding o'er her giant nest.

And now the moon had dimm'd with dewy ray

The few fine flushes of departing day.
O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung,
And her broad lights on every mountain flung
When lo! a sudden blast the vessel blew,
And to the surge consign'd the little crew.
All, all escaped-but ere the lover bore
His faint and faded Julia to the shore,

So saying, for a while he held his peace,
Awe-struck beneath that dreadful canopy;
But soon, the danger pass'd, launch'd forth again.

IV.

JORASSE.

JORASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year; Graceful and active as a stag just roused; Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech, Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up Among the hunters of the higher Alps; Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness, Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, Said to arise, by those who dwell below, From frequent dealings with the mountain spirits. But other ways had taught him better things; And now he number'd, marching by my side, The savans, princes, who with him had cross'd The frozen tract, with him familiarly Through the rough day and rougher night conversed In many a chalêt round the Peak of Terror,* Round Tacol, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau, And her, whose throne is inaccessible,† Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin majesty, Nor oft unveils. Anon an avalanche Roll'd its long thunder; and a sudden crash, Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear Told that far down a continent of ice Had burst in twain. But he had now begun ; And with what transport he recall'd the hour When to deserve, to win his blooming bride, Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod The upper realms of frost; then, by a cord Let halfway down, enter'd a grot star-bright, And gather'd from above, below, around, The pointed crystals!

Once, nor long before,
(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet,
And with an eloquence that nature gives
To all her children-breaking off by starts
Into the harsh and rude, oft as the mule
Drew his displeasure,) once, nor long before,
Alone at daybreak on the Mettenberg,
He slipp'd, he fell; and through a fearful cleft
Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,
Went to the under world! Long while he lay
Upon his rugged bed-then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever!
For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw
Innumerable branches of a cavern,
Winding beneath a solid crust of ice;

With here and there a rent that show'd the stars!
What then, alas, was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers.
Strewn with the bones of miserable men,
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round;
When hark, the noise as of some mighty river
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon return'd, and, fearless from despair,
Dash'd down the dismal channel; and all day.
If day could be where utter darkness was,

Travell'd incessantly, the craggy roof

Just over head, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's streng
Lashing him on. At last the water slept
In a dead lake at the third step he took,
Unfathomable and the roof, that long
Had threaten'd, suddenly descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
His journey ended; when a ray divine
Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to her
Whose ears are never shut, the blessed virgin,
He plunged, he swam-and in an instant rose,
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through
A smiling valley, full of cottages,
Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
The young were dancing ('twas a festival-day)
All in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke,
With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.
The tale was long, but coming to a close,
When his dark eyes flash'd fire, and, stopping short,
He listen❜d and look'd up. I look'd up too;
And twice there came a hiss that through me thrill'd!
"Twas heard no more. A chamois on the cliff'
Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear,
And all were gone.

But now the thread was broken;
Love and its joys had vanish'd from his mind;
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay,
(His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung,
His axe to hew a staircase in the ice,)

He track'd their footsteps. By a cloud surprised,
Upon a crag among the precipices,

Where the next step had hurl'd them fifty fathoms,
Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms,
All the long night under a freezing sky,
Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling.
O, 'twas a sport he loved dearer than life,
And only would with life itself relinquish !
"My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds.
As for myself," he cried, and he held forth
His wallet in his hand, "this do I call
My winding sheet-for I shall have no other!"
And he spoke truth. Within a little month
He lay among these awful solitudes,
('Twas on a glacier-halfway up to heaven,)
Taking his final rest. Long did his wife,
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out
The way he went at parting, but he came not!
Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep
(Such their belief) he should appear before her,
Frozen and ghastly pale, or crush'd and bleeding,
To tell her where he lay, and supplicate
For the last rite! At length the dismal news
Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse.

V.

MARGUERITE DE TOURS.

Now the gray granite, starting through the snow, Discover'd many a variegated moss*

* Lichen Geographicus.

That to the pilgrim resting on his staff
Shadows out capes and islands; and ere long
Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live
In lower regions, and delighted drink

The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues,
With their diminutive leaves cover'd the ground.
'Twas then, that, turning by an ancient larch,
Shiver'd in two, yet most majestical
With its long level branches, we observed
A human figure sitting on a stone

Far down by the way-side-just where the rock
Is riven asunder, and the Evil One

Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument
Built in one night, from which the flood beneath,
Raging along, all foam, is seen, not heard,
And seen as motionless!

Nearer we drew,
And 'twas a woman young and delicate,
Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot,
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand
In deepest thought. Young as she was, she wore
The matron cap; and from her shape we judged,
As well we might, that it would not be long
Ere she became a mother. Pale she look'd,
Yet cheerful; though, methought, once, if not twice,
She wiped away a tear that would be coming:
And in those moments her small hat of straw,
Worn on one side, and garnish'd with a riband
Glittering with gold, but ill conceal'd a face
Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up
On our approach, she journey'd slowly on;
And my companion, long before we met,
Knew, and ran down to greet her.

She was born
(Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears)
In Val d'Aosta; and an Alpine stream,
Leaping from crag to crag in its short course
To join the Dora, turn'd her father's mill.
There did she blossom till a Valaisan,
A townsman of Martigny, won her heart,
Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out,
Unwilling to resign her; and at length,

When the third summer came, they stole a match
And fled. The act was sudden; and when far
Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then
She pictured to herself that aged face
Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger;
And, when at last she heard his hour was near,
Went forth unseen, and, burden'd as she was,
Cross'd the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness,
And hold him to her heart before he died.
Her task was done. She had fulfill'd her wish,
And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping.
A frame like hers had suffer'd; but her love
Was strong within her; and right on she went,
Fearing no ill. May all good angels guard her!
And should I once again, as once I may,
Visit Martigny, I will not forget

Thy hospitable roof, Marguerite de Tours;

Thy sign the silver swan.* Heaven prosper thee!

VI.

THE ALPS.

WHO first beholds those everlasting clouds, Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,

* La Cygne.

Still where they were, steadfast, immovable;
Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain
Of mountains, stretching on from east to west,
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
As to belong rather to heaven than to earth-
But instantly receives into his soul

A sense, a feeling that he loses not,

A something that informs him 'tis a moment
Whence he may date henceforward and for ever?
To me they seem'd the barriers of a world,
Saying, Thus far, no farther! and as o'er
The level plain I travell'd silently,
Nearing them more and more, day after day,
My wandering thoughts my only company,
And they before me still, oft as I look'd,

A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er me,
A wonder as at things I had not heard of!
Oft as I look'd, I felt as though it were
For the first time!

Great was the tumult there,
Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp
The Carthaginian on his march to Rome
Entered their fastnesses. Trampling the snows,
The war-horse reared; and the tower'd elephant
Upturn'd his trunk into the murky sky,
Then tumbled headlong, swallow'd up and lost,
He and his rider.

Now the scene is changed; And o'er Mont Cenis, o'er the Simplon winds A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone Flung about carelessly, it shines afar, Catching the eye in many a broken link, In many a turn and traverse as it glides; And oft above and oft below appears, Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up, As though it were another, not the same, Leading along he knows not whence or whither Yet through its fairy course, go where it will, The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock Opens and lets it in; and on it runs. Winning its easy way from clime to clime Through glens lock'd up before.

Not such my path! Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, delight In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on Till fascination comes and the brain turns! Mine, though I judge but from my ague-fits Over the Drance, just where the abbot feel, The same as Hannibal's.

But now 'tis past,

That turbulent chaos; and the promised land
Lies at my feet in all its loveliness!
To him who starts up from a terrible dream,
And lo the sun is shining, and the lark
Singing aloud for joy, to him is not
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel
At the first glimpses of fair Italy.

VII. COMO.

I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake Under the shore-though not to visit Pliny, To catch him musing in his plane tree walk, Or fishing, as he might be, from his window: And, to deal plainly, (may his shade forgive me!) Could I recall the ages past, and play

The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve
My leisure for Catullus on his lake,
Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm
A little further on the way to Mantua.
But such things cannot be. So I sit still,
And let the boatman shift his little sail,
His sail so forked and so swallow-like,
Well pleased with all that comes. The morning air
Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round
A silvery gleam: and now the purple mists
Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out,
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light
This noble amphitheatre of mountains;
And now appear as on a phosphor sea
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavia;
Some sailing up, some down, and some at anchor,
Lading, unlading at that small port-town
Under the promontory-its tall tower

And long flat roofs, just such as Poussin drew,
Caught by a sunbeam slanting through a cloud;
A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life,
And doubled by reflection.

What delight,
After so long a sojourn in the wild,

To hear once more the sounds of cheerful labour !
-But in a clime like this where are they not?
Along the shores, among the hills 'tis now
The heyday of the vintage; all abroad,
But most the young and of the gentler sex,
Busy in gathering; all among the vines,
Some on the ladder, and some underneath,
Filling their baskets of green wickerwork,
While many a canzonet and frolic laugh
Come through the leaves; the vines in light festoons
From tree to tree, the trees in avenues,
And every avenue a cover'd walk,

Hung with black clusters. 'Tis enough to make
The sad man merry, the benevolent one
Melt into tears-so general is the joy!
While up and down the cliffs, over the lake,
Wains oxen-drawn, and pannier'd mules are seen,
Laden with grapes, and dropping rosy wine.
Here I received from thee, Filippo Mori,
One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare!
When, as I rambled through thy vineyard ground
On the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son,
Charged with a bunch almost as big as he,
it on the stranger.

To press

May thy vats O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer, Live to become ere long himself a giver ; And in due time, when thou art full of honour, The staff of thine old age!

In a strange land Such things, however trifling, reach the heart, And through the heart the head, clearing away The narrow notions that grow up at home, And in their place grafting good-will to all. At least I found it so; nor less at eve, When, bidden as an English traveller, ('Twas by a little boat that gave me chase With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I cross'd The bay of Tramezzine,) right readily I turn'd my prow and follow'd, landing soon Where steps of purest marble met the wave; Where, through the trellises and corridors,

Soft music came as from Armida's palace,
Breathing enchantment o'er the woods, the waters;
And through a bright pavilion, bright as day,
Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among
Such as of old in sober pomp swept by,
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts
Painted by Cagliari; where the world danced
Under the starry sky, while I look'd on,
Admiring, listening, quaffing gramolata,
And reading, in the eyes that sparkled round,
The thousand love adventures written there.
Can I forget-no, never, such a scene
So full of witchery! Night linger'd still,
When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio;
But the strain follow'd me; and still I saw
Thy smile, Angelica; and still I heard
Thy voice once and again bidding adieu.

VIII. BERGAMO.

THE song was one that I had heard before, But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness; And, turning round from the delicious fare My landlord's little daughter, Barbara, Had from her apron just roll'd out before me, Figs and rock-melons-at the door I saw Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like They were, and poorly clad, but not unskill'd; With their small voices and an old guitar Winning their mazy progress to my heart In that, the only universal language.

But soon they changed the measure, entering on
A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour,

A war of words, and waged with looks and gestures,
Between Trappanti and his ancient dame,
Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went;
While many a titter on the stairs was heard,
And Barbara's among them.

When 'twas done,
Their dark eyes flash'd no longer, yet, methought,
In many a glance as from the soul, express'd
More than enough to serve them. Far or near,
Few let them pass unnoticed; and there was not
A mother round about for many a league,
But could repeat their story. Twins they were,
And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world;
The parents lost in the old ferry-boat
That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down
Crossing the rough Penacus.*

May they live
Blameless and happy-rich they cannot be,
Like him who, in the days of minstrelsy,
Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door,
Crying without, "Give me a lay to sing!"
And soon in silk (such then the power of song)
Return'd to thank him; or like him wayworn
And lost, who, by the foaming Adigè
Descending from the Tyrol, as night fell,
Knock'd at a city gate near the hill foot,
The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone,
An eagle on a ladder, and at once

Found welcome-nightly in the banner'd nail
Tuning his harp to tales of chivalry

*Lago di Garda.