Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu !
There can be no farewell to scene like thine;
The mind is coloured by thy every hue;
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine !
"Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ;
More mighty spots may rise-more glaring shine,

But none unite in one attaching maze
The brilliant fair,and soft,--the glories of old days.

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen,
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom,
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between,
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
In mockery of man's art; and these withal
A race of faces happy as the scene,

Whose fertile bounties here extend to all [fall, Still springing o'erthy banks, though Empires near them

But these recede. Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche the thunderbolt of snow !
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,

Gather around these summits, as to show [below. How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan,
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,-
Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,
Nur blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ;
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host,
A bony heap, tbrough ages to remain,

Themselves their monument;the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roam’d, and shriek'd each wandering

H 3

[ghost. (14)

While Waterloo with Canna's carnage vies,
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ;
They were true Glory's stainless victories,
Won by the unambitious heart and hand
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,
All unbought champions in no princely cause
Of vice-entail'd Corruption; they no land

Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws
Making king's right divine, by some Draconic clause,

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days,
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,
And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze
Of one to stone converted by amaze,
Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands
Making a marvel that it pot decays,

When the coeval pride of human hands,
Levellid (15) Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.

LXVI. And there-oh! sweet and sacred be the name!Julia--the daughter, the devoted-gave Her youth to Heaven ; her heart beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and her's would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save

Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, (16) And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.

LXVII. But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that most not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; The high, the mountain-majesty of worth Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, And from its immortality look forth

In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, (17) ļuperishably pure beyond all things below,

Lake Leman woos me, with its crystal face
The mirror where the stars and mountains view
The stillness of their aspect in each trace
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue ;
There is too much of man here, to look through,
With a fit mind the might which I behold;
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew,

Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old,
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold.

To fly from, need not be to hate mankind;
All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil
Of our infection, till too late and long
We may deplore and struggle with the coil,

In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong,
Midst a contentious world,striving where noneare strong.

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
In fatal penitence, and in the blight
Of our own sonl, turn all our blood to tears,
And colour things to come with hues of Night ;
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight
To those that walk in darkness ; on the sea,
The boldest steer but where their ports invite,

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be

It is no better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, (18)
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
A fair but froward infapt her own care,
Kissing its cries away as these awake;

Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear?

I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me ? and to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture ; I can see
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,

And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.

And thus I am absorbed, and this is life,
I look upon the peopled desart past,
As on a place of agony and strife,
Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast,
To act and suffer, but remount at last
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring,
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast

Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free,
From what it hates in this degraded form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm,-
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be,shall I not,
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?

The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot. ?
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these ; and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and wordly phlegm

Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, [glow Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not

But this is not my theme ? and I return
To that which is immediate and require
Those who find contemplation in the urn,
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire,
A native of the land where I respire
The clear air for a while-a passing guest,
Where he became a being,--whose desire

Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest,
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest.

Here the self torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue

Of words, like sunbeams dazzling as they past
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

His love was passion's essence—as a tree
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be
Thus, aud enamoured, were in bim the same.
But his was not the love of living dame,
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
But of ideal Beauty, which became

In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distempered though it seem.

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ;
'This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss
Which every morn his fevered lip would greet,
From her's who but with friendship his would meet ;
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love devouring heat ;

In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.(19)

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