But when that calm spectatress from on high
Looks down-the bright and solitary moon,
Who never gazes but to beautify;
And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune
That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls;
Then might the passing monk receive a boon
Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls,
While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing lustre falls.
How blest the souls who when their trials come
Yield not to terror or despondency,
But face like that sweet boy their mortal doom,
Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he
Expectant stands beneath the linden tree,
Not quaking like the timid forest game;
He smiles-the hesitating shaft to free,
Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim,
And to his father give its own unerring aim.
By antique fancy trimmed-though lowly, bred
To dignity-in thee, O Schwytz! are seen
The genuine features of the golden mean;
Equality by prudence governèd,
Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead;
And, therefore, art thou blessed with peace, serene
As that of the sweet fields and meadows green
In unambitious compass round thee spread,
Majestic Berne, high on her guardian steep,
Holding a central station of command,
Might well be styled this noble body's head;
Thou, lodged mid mountainous entrenchments deep,
Its heart; and ever may the heroic land
Thy name, O Schwytz, in happy freedom keep!
THE "RANZ DES VACHES."
I LISTEN-but no faculty of mine
Avails those modulations to detect,
Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect
With tenderest passion; leaving him to pine
(So fame reports) and die; his sweet-breathed kine
Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked
With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject
The tale as fabulous. Here while I recline
Mindful how others love this simple strain,
Even here, upon this glorious mountain, named
Of God himself from dread pre-eminence-
Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed,
Yield to the music's touching influence,
And joys of distant home my heart enchain.
THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS GOATHERD.
Now that the farewell tear is dried,
Heaven prosper thee, be Hope thy guide!
Hope be thy guide, adventurous boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!
Whether for London bound-to trill
Thy mountain notes with simple skill;
Or on thy head to poise a show
Of images in seemly row;
The graceful form of milk-white steed,
Or bird that soared with Ganymede;
Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear
The sightless Milton, with his hair
Around his placid temples curled;
And Shakspeare at his side—a freight,
If clay could think and mind were weight,
For him who bore the world!
Hope be thy guide, adventurous boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!
But thou, perhaps (alert and free
Though serving sage philosophy),
Wilt ramble over hill and dale,
A vendor of the well-wrought scale
Whose sentient tube instructs to time
A purpose to a fickle clime;
Whether thou choose this useful part
Or minister to finer art,
Though robbed of many a cherished dream,
And crossed by many a shattered scheme,
What stirring wonders wilt thou see
In the proud isle of liberty!
Yet will the wanderer sometimes pine
With thoughts which no delights can chase,
Recall a sister's last embrace,
His mother's neck entwine;
Nor shall forget the maiden coy
That would have loved the bright-haired boy!
My song, encouraged by the grace
That beams from his ingenuous face,
For this adventurer scruples not
To prophesy a golden lot;
Due recompence, and safe return
To Como's steeps-his happy bourne !
Where he, aloft in garden glade,
Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed maid,
The towering maize, and prop the twig
That ill supports the luscious fig;
Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof
With purple of the trellis-roof,
That through the jealous leaves escapes
From Cadenabbia's pendant grapes.
Oh, might he tempt that goatherd child
To share his wanderings! him whose look
Even yet my heart can scarcely brook,
So touchingly he smiled,
As with a rapture caught from heaven,
For unasked alms in pity given.
WITH nodding plumes, and lightly dressed
Like foresters in leaf-green vest,
The Helvetian mountaineers, on ground
For Tell's dread archery renowned,
Before the target stood-to claim
The guerdon of the steadiest aim.
Loud was the rifle-gun's report,
A startling thunder quick and short!
But, flying through the heights around,
Echo prolonged a telltale sound
Of hearts and hands alike "prepared
The treasures they enjoy to guard."
And, if there be a favoured hour
When heroes are allowed to quit
The tomb, and on the clouds to sit
With tutelary power,
On their descendants shedding grace,
This was the hour, and that the place.
But truth inspired the bards of old
When of an iron age they told,
Which to unequal laws gave birth,
That drove Astræa from the earth.
A gentle boy (perchance with blood
As noble as the best endued,
But seemingly a thing despised,
Even by the sun and air unprized;
For not a tinge of flowery streak
Appeared upon his tender cheek)
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes
Of pleasure, by his silent goats,
Sate far apart in forest shed,
Pale, ragged, bare his feet and head,
Mute as the snow upon the hill,
And, as the saint he prays to, still.
Ah, what avails heroic deed?
What liberty? if no defence
Be won for feeble innocence
Father of all! though wilful manhood read
His punishment in soul-distress,
Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness!
THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO
DA VINCI.
THOUGH Searching damps and many an envious flaw
Have marred this work, the calm ethereal grace,
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
The elements; as they do melt and thaw
The heart of the beholder-and erase
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace
Of disobedience to the primal law.
The annunciation of the dreadful truth
Made to the twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek
And hand reposing on the board in ruth
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek
Unquestionable meanings, still bespeak
A labour worthy of eternal youth!
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