If Helvetia has seen you amid her wild scenes,

Feel the pleasure that knows no alloy;
And her hills and dark forests, her rocks and ravines,

Have transported your senses with joy :

Then hasten with me to those scenes once again,

We will clamber together the steep; We will tread the rude path, and look down on the glen,

Where the torrent rolls rapid and deep.

The bright sunbeams are glancing amid the high trees,

And the forest has lost half its gloom; O how sweet is the breath of the fresh mountain-breeze,

And the sight of the valley in bloom!

Now winds the rough road o'er the rude one-arch'd bridge,

Where the torrent rolls foaming below;
And St. Bernard far towering above the high ridge,

Lifts his hoary old summit of snow.

Can the wand'rer advance without feelings of dread,

Mid the scenes that now crowd on his sight; While the menacing cliffs bend and frown o'er his head,

And the cataract pours on his right :

Where the pines of the forest are stanted and sere,

And the ragged road seldom is traced ;
Where the rocks are all barren, the mountain all drear,

And the valley all desert and waste :

Where no music is heard but the shrill Alpine blast,

And the roar of the cataract's fall,
And the howl of the wolf for his savage repast,

And the echo that answers to all ?

In a desert like this well might Piety's hand

Plant aloft the bright Sign of our faith;
For the Cross shall yet hallow this desolate land,

And yet cheer the worn wanderer's path.

But the shows gather round, and the sun has long ceas'd

To enliven the comfortless day;
And the mist on the mountain's high top is increas'd

And half-choked is the torrent's rough way.

See! the avalanche has fallen-it lies far and wide ;

And how frightful the ruin it made,
For it swept down in thunder the forest's high pride,

And the rock-crag how prostrate it laid !

And it rollid on relentless, and buried the cot,

Which had shelter'd the poor mountaineer ;

Nor has left to kind Pity a trace of the spot,

Wbere the snow might dissolve with her tear.

But the pine trees it shiver'd lie low in its wreck,

And the crags it brought down in its fall; Attempted in vain the wild torrent to check,

For it foam'd and broke over them all.

It is past; but the scene is more frightful and drear: ,

Not a pine rises over the snow,
Not a point of the gray granite rock can appear

Not a floweret can flourish below.

And the traveller advances with caution and dread,

In his dubious and desolate way; For who knows but the avalanche may burst o'er his head,

Or the snow-cover'd gulf may betray?

Yet more sleep is the mountain, more rude is the blast,

More keen, more benumbing the air; Vegetation long since feebly bourgeon'd her last,

And around-all is death and despair.

Ev'n frozen and hush'd is the torrent's loud foam,

And the cascade is dashing no more';
The wild chamois alone will here venture to roam,

And the glacier yet dare to explore.

Every track is long lost of the steep Darrow way,

And how dreadful, how thrilling to think,
That the traveller unknowing might fatally stray,

Where the snow hides the precipice' brink!

And his senses are numb'd by the chill mountain air,

And a stupor invites to repose :
But resist, weary pilgrim! 'tis death lays the snare,

And would sink thee a grave in the snows.

Yet advance for a while, and the danger is past,

For St. Bernard's bleak summit is nigh, Where, tho' beats the dread tempest, and roars the rade blast

His wbite front looks unhurt to the sky.

The high summit is gain'd, and fair Charity's hand,

Has invited the wanderer in :-
Who would hope she could dwell in this desolate land,

Where no creature, no comfort is seen?

But the mountain's high summit no longer is drear,

By Religion and Charity blest; Hospitality ventures to smile even here,

And to soothe the worn traveller to rest.

THE ALPS.

As with an angel role will p er pufound NYRON

Whispers to heava: a ser-the sulty - ABOra me are the Alps, The palaces of nature, whose vast walls, Or day more faintly yan steep crags sur Have pinnacled in clouds their serowy round: scalps,

Slowly even now each western beam And throned eternity, in ler hatts

retires, Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls, Hades, lighteas ofer the wave, and with a The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow! smile expires. All that expands the spirit, yet appals

Gather around these summits, as to show ' Night, utter night succeexis. Above How earth may pierce to bearea, yet leave

below vain man below

All deepens slowly in one blaekening

"Tis eve! The sun's last rays are glim

mering still On Snowdon's created summit, and aronnd His granite rocka flows the deep bosomed!

Heaven smiles on earth again the file

mering star
Pours in mild lustre down his

light;

The clouds sail by in homage, and the Dim flashes the blue lightning ;-eddying night

by Welcomes her as a friend ;-the heavenly Leaps the swollen torrent; o'er the catatrain

ract raves Of satellites attend her in her fight With brutal force, and headlong flings its From pole to pole; while a full-chorused billowy waves.

strain Of beaven's own music swells and dies again. The night breeze sails athwart the sky

the thunder Brightly she moves on in her loveliness! Has waked him from his sleep-the spirit The fair-haired regent of the sky !-Her hears smiles

The Demon's call, and rudely rends Soothe the stern horrors of the scene, and

asunder bless

The bonds of rest : upon the cloud he rears Nature's calm slumber ; o'er yon splin. | His deathless might, and wrathfully careers tered piles

Round the black rocks,—dashes in venOf beetling crays, how sweetly she be geance down guiles

Their craggy summits,-damps the toil of Gloom of its frown; and, see! the glit. years tering rill

With one rude whirlwind-and, more Heaves conscious of her presence, and ruthless grown, reviles,

Heaves up the ocean-waves his giant-strength With murmuring voice, yon proudly to crown.

frowning hill, That scorns meek Dian's gaze, and mocks And now he sinks in softness, and anon her gentle will.

Rolls on the ear with desolating peal;

Again the voice is silent.-- Is it gone, A sound rolls by of horror!-on the wind . The darksome horrors of the night to seal ! Rides the dark-bosomed Demon of the Forth peeps the moon; her watery beams storm ;

reveal Whirlwinds with meteor-splendor, crowd | The death that has been busy here;-again behind,

The clouds sail round, as anxious to conAnd heaven peals out the trumpet of alarm. ceal Hark! from yon murky cloud with light. The sight of desolation, but in vainning warm,

She walks in beauty forth, with all her A voice of death proceeds !—The Majesty starry train. Of Heaven displays around its harrowing

form Hark! God in all his power is riding by! Heard ye his chariot-wheels sweep echoing thro' the sky ?

DARTMOOR.

CARRINGTON. He speaks ! scared nature trembles at the sound;

DARTMOOR rears Earth, air, sky, ocean, dictate a reply; In the dim distance his cloud-cover'd head, The mountain-rock tolls out the voice With granite-girdle sweeping nearly round profound,

The varied map, until he plants his foot And woodland echo multiplies the cry : Sublimely in the loud Atlantic wave. Clashed with the night-owl's scream, along the sky

But who that climbs the brow sublime, Rolls the live thunder; thro' the forest and thence caves,

Surveys the dread immensity of sen,

Wild-heaving often here, and seldom lull'd | The wave of ocean visits. On it roams
To deep tranquillity, e'en by the hush Through the bright burning zone where ar-
Of Summer, feels not pleasure, wonder, awe d ent gales
Alternate, as in breeze, or gale, or storm, Cool their scorch'd pinions in it. Indian
He gazes on its bosom! On the waste

airs Of waters, rolling from the birth of Time, From bowers of bliss, waft o'er its smiling The great and fathomless Ocean, swathing I face round,

Perfumes of Paradise, and round the poles, As with a girdle, this stupendous Earth, Startling the eternal solitudes of snow, The eye would dwell for ever! Every shore | The restless wanderer howls !

WINDS.

TO THE WINDS.

CLARE.

Hail, gentle Winds! I love your murmuring sound ;

The willows charm me, wavering to and fro;
And oft I stretch me on the daisied ground,

To see you crimp the wrinkled flood below:
Delighted more as brisker gusts succeed

And give the landscape round a sweeter grace,
Sweeping in shaded waves the ripening mead,

Puffing their rifled fragrance in my face.
Painters of Nature! ye are doubly dear

Her children dearly love your whispering charms:
Ah, ye have murmur'd sweet to many an ear

That now lies dormant in Death's icy arms,
Aud at this moment many a weed ye wave,
That hides the bard in the forgotten grave.

BARTON.

Ye viewless Minstrels of the sky!
I marvel not in times gone by

That ye were deified :
For, even in this later day,
To me oft has your power, or play,

Unearthly thoughts supplied.

| Graceful your play! when, round the

bower
Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower,

To wreathe her dark locks there,
Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe
The leaves between, flit round that wreatha,

And stir her silken hair.

Awful your power! when by your might,
You heave the wild waves, crested white,

Like mountains in your wrath!
Ploughing between them valleys deep,
Which, to the seaman rous'd from sleep,

Yawn like Death's op'ning path! .

Still, thoughts like these are but of earth,
And you can give far loftier birth:-

Ye come !--we know not whence !
| Ye go !--can mortals trace your fight?
All imperceptible to sight;

Though audible to sense.