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ALAS! what boots the long laborious quest
Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill; Or pains abstruse—to elevate the will, And lead us on to that transcendent rest Where every passion shall the sway attest Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill; What is it but a vain and curious skill, If sa pient Germany must lie deprest, Beneath the brutal sword ?—Her haughty Schools Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow say, A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought More for mankind at this unhappy day Than all the pride of intellect and thought?
ART thou a Statist, in the van
of public conflicts trained and bred ?
-First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.
A Lawyer art thou ?-draw not nigh!
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.
Art thou a man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee.
Or art thou one of gallant pride,
A Soldier and no man of chaff ?
Welcome !--but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a peasant's staff.
Physician art thou ? one, all
eyes, Philosopher! a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave ?
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside,-and take, I pray
That he alone may rest in peace,
Thy ever-dwindling soul away!
A Moralist perehance appears;
Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod;
And he has neither eyes nor ears ;
Himself his world, and his own God;
One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;
A reasoning self-suflicing thing,
An intellectual All-in-all!
Shut close the door; press down the latch;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust;
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.
But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet-brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love, .
The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on bis own heart.
But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.
-Come hither in thy hour of strength;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body at full length;
Or build thy house upon
his new acquaintances, who were informed of the object of his journey,
and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We
met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-sta-
dent became in consequence our travelling companions for a couple of
days. We ascended the Righi together; and after contemplating the
sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot
well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party
descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late com-
panions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva; but ou
the third succeeding day (on the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard perished,
being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. His com-
panion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the
mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast
of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate
of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospi.
tality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He
caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of
Kusnacht, which cords the premature fate of the young American, and
on the shore too of the lake the traveller may read an inscription point.
ing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves.
ULLED 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
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!
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!
Oh 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.
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;
And nothing in our hearts we found
That prompted even a sigh.
Fetch, sympathizing 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!