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Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers,
And antique castles seen through drizzling showers.
From such romantic dreams my soul awake,
Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake,

Where, by the unpathway'd margin, still and dread,
Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread.
Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach
Far o'er the secret water dark with beech;
More high, to where creation seems to end,
Shade above shade, the desert pines ascend,
Yet with his infants, man undaunted creeps
And hangs his small wood hut upon the steeps.
Where'er below, amid the savage scene,
Peeps out a little speck of smiling green.
A garden plot the mountain air perfumes,
'Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms,
A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff,
Threading the painful crag, surmounts the cliff.
-Before those hermit doors, that never know
The face of traveller passing to and fro,
No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell
For whom at morning toll'd the funeral bell;
Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes,
Touch'd by the beggar's moan of human woes;
The grassy seat beneath their casement shade
The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stay'd.
-There, did the iron genius not disdain
The gentle power that haunts the myrtle plain,
There, might the love-sick maiden sit, and chide
The insuperable rocks and severing tide;

There, watch at eve her lover's sun-gilt sail
Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale;

There, list at midnight, till is heard no more,

Below, the echo of his parting oar;

There, hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream,
To guide his dangerous tread, the taper's gleam.

'Mid stormy vapours ever driving by,
Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry,
Where hardly given the hopeless waste to cheer,
Denied the bread of life, the foodful ear,
Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray,
And apple sickens pale in summer's ray;
Even here Content has fix'd her smiling reign
With Independence, child of high Disdain.
Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies,
Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies,
And often grasps her sword, and often eyes:
Her crest a bough of winter's bleakest pine,

Strange "weeds" and Alpine plants her helm entwine,
And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast,

While thrills the "Spartan fife," between the blast.

'Tis storm; and, hid in mist from hour to hour. All day the floods a deepening murmur pour ·

D

The sky is veil'd, and every cheerful sight:
Dark is the region as with coming night;
But what a sudden burst of overpowering light;
Triumphant on the bosom of the storm,
Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form;
Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine
The wood-crown'd cliffs that o'er the lake recline;
Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold,
At once to pillars turn'd that flame with gold:
Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun
The west, that burns like one dilated sun,
Where, in a mighty crucible, expire

The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire.
-And sure there is a secret Power that reigns
Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes,
Nought* but the herds that, pasturing, upward creep
Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep,
Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high
Suspended, 'mid the quiet of the sky.
How still! no irreligious sound or sight
Rouses the soul from her severe delight;
An idle voice the sabbath region fills
Of deep that calls to deep across the hills.
Broke only by the melancholy sound
Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round;
Faint wail of eagle melting into blue

Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady sough;†
The solitary heifer's deepen'd low;

Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow;
Save that, the stranger seen below, the boy
Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy.

When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas,
Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal breeze,
When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear,
And emerald isles to spot the heights appear,
When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill,
And louder torrents stun the noontide hill,
When fragrant scents beneath the enchanted tread
Spring up, his choicest wealth around him spread,
The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale,
To silence leaving the deserted vale,

Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage,
And pastures on, as in the patriarchs' age:
O'er lofty heights serene and still they go,
And hear the rattling thunder far below.
They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed,
Rock'd on the dizzy larch's narrow tread;
Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd,
That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd.
-I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps
To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps;

This picture is from the middle region of the Alps.

"Sough," a Scotch word, expressive of the sound of the wind through the trees.

Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws,
The fodder of his herds in winter snows.

Far different life to what tradition hoar
Transmits of days more blest in times of yore:
Then summer lengthen'd out his season bland,
And with rock-honey flow'd the happy land.
Continual fountains welling cheer'd the waste,
And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste.
Nor winter yet his frozen stores had piled,
Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled;
Nor hunger forced the herds from pastures bare,
For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare.
then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand
Three times a day the pail and welcome hand.
But human vices have provoked the rod
Of angry Nature to avenge her God.
Thus does the father to his sons relate,
On the lone mountain-top, their changed estate.
Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts
Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts.
When downward to his winter hut he
goes,
Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows;
That hut which from the hills his eyes employs
So oft, the central point of all his joys.
Where, safely guarded by the woods behind,
He hears the chiding of the baffled wind.
Hears winter, calling all his terrors round,
Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound.
Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide,
Unstain'd by envy, discontent, and pride,
The bound of all his vanity to deck,

With one bright bell a favourite heifer's neck;
Content upon some simple annual feast,
Remember'd half the year and hoped the rest,
If dairy produce, from his inner hoard
Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board.

Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume!
Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume!
Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn,
And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return!
Soon flies the little joy to man allow'd,
And grief before him travels like a cloud :
For come diseases on and penury's rage,
Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age,
Till, hope-deserted, long in vain his breath
Implores the dreadful untried sleep of death.
-'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine
Between interminable tracts of pine,

A temple stands; which holds an awful shrine,
By an uncertain light reveal'd, that falls
On the mute image and the troubled walls:
Pale, dreadful faces round the shrine appear,
Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear;

While strives a secret power to hush the crowd,
Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud.
Oh! give me not that eye of hard disdain
That views undimm'd Ensiedlen's* wretched fane.
'Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet,
Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet;
While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry,
Surely in other thoughts contempt may die.
If the sad grave of human ignorance bear
One flower of hope-Oh, pass and leave it there.

THE FEMALE VAGRANT.

My father was a good and pious man,
An honest man by honest parents bred;
And I believe, that, soon as I began
To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,
And in his hearing there my prayers I said;
And afterwards, by my good father taught,
I read, and loved the books in which I read;
For books in every neighbouring house I sought,
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.
The suns of twenty summers danced along,-
Ah! little mark'd how fast they roll'd away;
Then rose a stately hall our woods among,
And cottage after cottage own'd its sway.
No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray
Through pastures not his own, the master took :
My father dared his greedy wish gainsay;

He loved his old hereditary nook,

And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.

But, when he had refused the proffer'd gold,

To cruel injuries he became a prey,

Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:
His troubles grew upon him day by day,

And all his substance fell into decay.

They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried

To move their hearts-but it was vain-for they
Seized all he had; and, weeping side by side,
We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.
It was in truth a lamentable hour

When, from the last hill-top my sire survey'α,
Peering above the trees, the steeple tower
That on his marriage-day sweet music made,
Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,
Close by my mother, in their native bowers;
Bidding me trust in God, he stood and pray'd-
I could not pray :-through tears that fell in showers,
I saw our own dear home, that was no longer ours.

This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multitudes, from every corner of the Catholic world, labouring under mental or bodily afflictions.

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There was a youth whom I had loved so long,
That when I loved him not I cannot say.

Mid the green mountains many and many a song
We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May.
When we began to tire of childish play,

We seem'd still more and more to prize each other;
We talk'd of marriage and our marriage-day;
And I in truth did love him like a brother;

For never could I hope to meet with such another.

Two years were past, since to a distant town
He had repair'd to ply the artist's trade.
What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown
What tender vows our last sad kiss delay'd!
To him we turn'd: we had no other aid.
Like one revived, upon his neck I wept :
And her whom he had loved in joy, he said
He well could love in grief: his faith he kept;
And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest
With daily bread, by constant toil supplied.
Three lovely infants lay upon my breast;
And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sigh'd,
And knew not why. My happy father died
When sad distress reduced the children's meal;
Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide
The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,

And tears that flow'd for ills which patience could not heal.
"Twas a hard change, an evil time was come;
We had no hope, and no relief could gain.

But soon, day after day, the noisy drum

Beat round to sweep the streets of want and pain.

My husband's arms now only served to strain

Me and his children hungering in his view :

In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain :

To join those miserable men he flew :

And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more we drow.

There, long were we neglected, and we bore
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weigh'd;
Green fields before us and our native shore,
We breathed a pestilential air that made

Ravage for which no knell was heard. We pray'd
For our departure; wish'd and wish'd-nor knew
'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes delay'd,
That happier days we never more must view:

The parting signal stream'd, at last the land withdrew.
But the calm summer season now was past.
On as we drove, the equinoctial deep

Ran mountains high before the howling blast;
And many perish'd in the whirlwind's sweep.
We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep,
Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,

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