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MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820

XXXII. ELEGIAC STANZAS

          LULLED by the sound of pastoral bells,
          Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go,
          From the dread summit of the Queen
          Of mountains, through a deep ravine,
          Where, in her holy chapel, dwells
          "Our Lady of the Snow."

          The sky was blue, the air was mild;
          Free were the streams and green the bowers;
          As if, to rough assaults unknown,
          The genial spot had 'ever' shown                            10
          A countenance that as sweetly smiled--
          The face of summer-hours.

          And we were gay, our hearts at ease;
          With pleasure dancing through the frame
          We journeyed; all we knew of care--
          Our path that straggled here and there;
          Of trouble--but the fluttering breeze;
          Of Winter--but a name.

          If foresight could have rent the veil
          Of three short days--but hush--no more!                     20
          Calm is the grave, and calmer none
          Than that to which thy cares are gone,
          Thou Victim of the stormy gale;
          Asleep on ZURICH'S shore!

          O GODDARD! what art thou?--a name--
          A sunbeam followed by a shade!
          Nor more, for aught that time supplies,
          The great, the experienced, and the wise:
          Too much from this frail earth we claim,
          And therefore are betrayed.                                 30

          We met, while festive mirth ran wild,
          Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn,
          Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave,
          A sea-green river, proud to lave,
          With current swift and undefiled,
          The towers of old LUCERNE.

          We parted upon solemn ground
          Far-lifted towards the unfading sky;
          But all our thoughts were 'then' of Earth,
          That gives to common pleasures birth;                       40
          And nothing in our hearts we found
          That prompted even a sigh.

          Fetch, sympathising Powers of air,
          Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands,
          Herbs, moistened by Virginian dew,
          A most untimely grave to strew,
          Whose turf may never know the care
          Of 'kindred' human hands!

          Beloved by every gentle Muse
          He left his Transatlantic home:                             50
          Europe, a realised romance,
          Had opened on his eager glance;
          What present bliss!--what golden views!
          What stores for years to come!

          Though lodged within no vigorous frame,
          His soul her daily tasks renewed,
          Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings
          High poised--or as the wren that sings
          In shady places, to proclaim
          Her modest gratitude.                                       60

          Not vain is sadly-uttered praise;
          The words of truth's memorial vow
          Are sweet as morning fragrance shed
          From flowers 'mid GOLDAU'S ruins bred;
          As evening's fondly-lingering rays,
          On RIGHI'S silent brow.

          Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay
          Fit obsequies the Stranger paid;
          And piety shall guard the Stone
          Which hath not left the spot unknown                        70
          Where the wild waves resigned their prey--
          And 'that' which marks thy bed.

          And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee,
          Lost Youth! a solitary Mother;
          This tribute from a casual Friend
          A not unwelcome aid may lend,
          To feed the tender luxury,
          The rising pang to smother.


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