TO THE RIVER ARVE.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOOT OF MONT BLANC.

NOT from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within her bosom, locks
Thy dark unfathomed wells below.
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream
Begins to move and murmur first
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam,

Or rain-storms on the glacier burst.

Born where thunder and the blast

And morning's earliest light are born, Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast, By these low homes, as if in scorn: Yet humbler springs yield purer waves ; And brighter, glassier streams than thine, Sent up from earth's unlighted caves,

With heaven's own beam and image shine.

Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees;
Warm rays on cottage roofs are here,
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees—

Here linger till thy waves are clear.
Thou heedest not-thou hastest on;
From steep to steep thy torrent falls,
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone,
It rests beneath Geneva's walls.

Rush on-but were there one with me

That loved me, I would light my hearth

Here, where with God's own majesty

Are touched the features of the earth. By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, Still rising as the tempests beat,

Here would I dwell, and sleep at last,

Among the blossoms at their feet.

TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING

FOR EUROPE.

THINE eyes shall see the light of distant skies: Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand

A living image of our own bright land, Such as upon thy glorious canvas lies; Lone lakes-savannas where the bison roves

Rocks rich with summer garlands-solemn streams

Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and

screams

Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless

groves.

Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest

fair,

But different-every where the trace of men, Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen

To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air, Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,

But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.