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I in the world must live ! but thou,
Thou melancholy shade,
Wilt not, if thou can'st see me now,
Condemn me, nor upbraid !

For thou art gone away from earth,
And place with those dost claim,
The children of the second birth

Whom the world could not tame;

And with that small transfigured band, Whom many a different way Conducted to their common land, Thou learn'st to think as they.

Christian and pagan, king and slave,
Soldier and anchorite,
Distinctions we esteem so grave,
Are nothing in their sight.

They do not ask, who pined unseen,
Who was on action hurld,
Whose one bond is, that all have been
Unspotted by the world.

There without anger thou wilt see
Him who obeys thy spell
No more, so he but rest, like thee,
Unsoil'd;—and so, farewell !

Farewell !—Whether thou now liest near
That much-loved inland sea
The ripples of whose blue waves cheer
Vevey and Meillerie;

And in that gracious region bland,
Where with clear-rustling wave
The scented pines of Switzerland
Stand dark round thy green grave,

Between the dusty vineyard-walls
Issuing on that green place
The early peasant still recalls
The pensive stranger's face,

And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date
Ere he plods on again ;-
Or whether, by maligner fate,
Among the swarms of men,

Where between granite terraces
The blue Seine rolls her wave,
The capital of pleasure sees
Thy hardly-heard-of grave-

Farewell! Under the sky we part,
In this stern Alpine dell.
O unstrung will! O broken heart
A last, a last farewell !

OBERMANN ONCE MORE.

(COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)

Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d'un monde ?

OBERMANN.

GLION?
LION ? —Ah, twenty years, it cuts 14

All meaning from a name !
White houses prank where once were huts;
Glion, but not the same !

And yet I know not! All unchanged
The turf, the pines, the sky;
The hills in their old order ranged;
The lake, with Chillon by !

And 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff
And stony mounts the way,
Their crackling husk-heaps burn, as if
I left them yesterday.

Across the valley, on that slope,
The huts of Avant shine!
Its pines under their branches ope
Ways for the tinkling kine.

Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare,
Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass,
Invite to rest the traveller there
Before he climb the pass-

16

The gentian-flower'd pass, its crown
With yellow spires aflame;
Whence drops the path to Allière down,
And walls where Byron came, 16

By their green river who doth change
His birth-name just below-
Orchard, and croft, and full-stored grange
Nursed by his pastoral flow.

But stop !—to fetch back thoughts that stray
Beyond this gracious bound,
The cone of Jaman, pale and grey,
See, in the blue profound !

Ah, Jaman ! delicately tall
Above his sun-warm'd firs-
What thoughts to me his rocks recall !
What memories he stirs !

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