| |
| NOT from the sands or cloven rocks | |
| Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow; | |
| Nor earth within its bosom locks | |
| Thy dark, unfathomed wells below. | |
| Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream | 5 |
| Begins to move and murmur first | |
| Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, | |
| Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. | |
| |
| Born where the thunder and the blast, | |
| And morning’s earliest light are born, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, | |
| Among the blossoms at their feet. | |
| |
