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LYRIC POEMS

VOL. II

B

SWITZERLAND

1. MEETING

AGAIN I see my bliss at hand,
The town, the lake are here;
My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,1
Unalter'd with the year.

I know that graceful figure fair,
That cheek of languid hue;

I know that soft, enkerchief'd hair,
And those sweet eyes of blue.

Again I spring to make

my

choice;

Again in tones of ire

I hear a God's tremendous voice:

'Be counsell'd, and retire.'

Ye guiding Powers who join and part,
What would ye have with me?
Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,
And let the peaceful be!

2. PARTING

YE storm-winds of Autumn!
Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake;
Who cross to the hill-side
Thin-sprinkled with farms,
Where the high woods strip sadly
Their yellowing arms-

Ye are bound for the mountains !
Ah! with you let me go

Where your cold, distant barrier,
The vast range of snow,

Through the loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peaks in air-

How deep is their stillness!

Ah, would I were there!

But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?

Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?
Ah! it comes nearer-

Sweet notes, this way!

Hark! fast by the window
The rushing winds go,
To the ice-cumber'd gorges,
The vast seas of snow!

There the torrents drive upward
Their rock-strangled hum;
There the avalanche thunders
The hoarse torrent dumb.

-I come, O ye mountains!
Ye torrents, I come!

But who is this, by the half-open'd door,
Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?
The sweet blue eyes-the soft, ash-colour'd hair-
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear-
The lovely lips, with their arch smile that tells
The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells—
Ah! they bend nearer—
Sweet lips, this way!

Hark! the wind rushes past us!
Ah! with that let me go

To the clear, waning hill-side,

Unspotted by snow,

There to watch, o'er the sunk vale,

The frore mountain-wall,

Where the niched snow-bed

sprays

down

Its powdery fall.

There its dusky blue clusters

The aconite spreads;

There the pines slope, the cloud-strips

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