And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me!

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
And many a rock which steeply lours,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,—
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must wither'd be,
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherish'd them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine,
And offer'd from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round;
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground
There is a small and simple pyramid,
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound;
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid,
Our enemy's, but let not that forbid
Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough
soldier's lid,

Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young

career,—

His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes;

And fitly may the stranger lingering here Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, The few in number, who had not o'erstept

The charter to chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons; he had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

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

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

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloo Of coming ripeness, the white city's shee The rolling stream, the precipice's gloor The forest's growth, and Gothic wal

between,

plain;

Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, Abony heap, throngh ages to remain, Themselves their monument;-the Stygian coast

[nsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost.

While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies,
Morat and Marathon twin-names shall stand,
They were true Glory's stainless victories,
Wen by the unambitious heart and hand
Of a proad, brotherly, and civic band,
All abought champions in no princely cause
Of rice entail'd Corruption; they no land
Doo'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws
Making kings' rights divine, by some Dra-
conic clause.

ing a marvel that it not decays, For the coeval pride of human hands, =ell' Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands.

And there-oh! sweet and sacred be the name!—

-the daughter, the devoted—gave Be youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim

to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's
grave.

Je is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers
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,
Andheid within their urn one mind, one
heart, one dust.

But these are deeds which should not pass

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
none are strong.

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
In fatal penitence, and in the blight
Of our own soul 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 anchor'd ne'er shall be.

Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make

A fair but froward infant 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 absorb'd, 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

On one another; pity ceased to melt
With her once natural charities. But they,
Who in oppression's darkness caved had
dwelt,

They were not eagles,nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey?

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

The heart's bleed longest and but heal to

wear

That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear

Silence, but not submission: in his lair
Frd Passion holds his breath, until the hour
Which shall atone for years: none need
despair:

case, it cometh, and will come,—the power

To punish or forgive-in one we shall be slower.

placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing but warns me, with its stillness, to forsake troubled waters for a purer spring. quiet sail is as a noiseless wing vit me from distraction; once I loved cean's roar, but thy soft murmuring sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

the hash of night, and all between The margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,

Waved and mingling, yet distinctly seen, arken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear

ipitously steep; and drawing near, breathes a living fragrance from the shore, vers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear

Draps de light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-nightcarol more;

» evening-reveller, who makes le an infancy, and sings his fill; tervals, some bird from out the brakes into voice a moment, then is still. seems a floating whisper on the hill, that is fancy, for the starlight-dews ratly their tears of love instil, ng themselves away, till they infuse piato Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

To stars! which are the poetry of heaven! var bright leaves we would read the fate

Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named
themselves a star.

take

A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek The Spirit,in whose honour shrines are weak, Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and

compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!

The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wond'rous strong,

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags

among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her

aloud!