And when thine infancy hath fled And Time with woman's zone hath bound thee, If, in the path thou 'rt doomed to tread, The thorns of sorrow lurk, and wound thee, Be thine that exquisite relief Which blossoms 'mid the springs of grief! VII. And like the many-tinted Bow, Which smiles the showery clouds away, May Hope Grief's Iris here belowAttend, and soothe thee on thy way, Till full of years thy cares at rest— Thou seek'st the mansions of the blest! Young Sister of a mortal NINE, Farewell!-Perchance a long farewell! Though woes unnumbered yet be mine,Woes, Hope may vainly strive to quell,— I'll half unteach my soul to pine, So there be bliss for thee and THINE! 1817. CHAMOUNI. A SKETCH ON THE SPOT. The lips that may forget God in the crowd, WORDSWORTH. I. "Tis Night;-and Silence with unmoving wings Broods o'er the sleeping waters;—not a sound Breaks its most breathless hush. The sweet moon flings Her pallid lustre on the hills around, Turning the snows and ices that have crowned Since chaos reigned-each vast and searchless height, And, girt with arrowy rays, rests her full orb of light. II. The eternal mountains momently are peering Through the blue clouds that mantle them;-on high Their glittering crests majestically rearing, More like to children of the infinite sky, Than of the dædal earth.Triumphantly, Of mists that moat his base from Arve's dark, deep ravine, III. Stands the magnificent Montblanc! His brow Scarred with ten thousand thunders,-most sublime, Even as though risen from the world below To mark the progress of Decay: by clime, Storm, blight, fire, earthquake injured not! Like Time, Stern chronicler of centuries gone by, Doomed by a heavenly fiat still to climb, E Swell and increase with years incessantly, Then yield at length to thee, most dread Eternity! IV. Hark! There are sounds of tumult and commotion Hurtling in murmurs on the distant air Like the wild music of a wind-lashed ocean, With giant-stride descending! 'Tis Despair, V. Perchance a gale from fervid Italy Startled the air-hung thunderer; or the tone The echoes of the mountain cataract, thrown be, 'Twas but some Heaven-sent power that did prevail For an inscrutable end, its slumbers to assail. VI. Madly it bursts along,-even as a river That gathers strength in its most fierce career; Pale as that white-robed minister of wrath, In silent wilderment her face doth rear; And having gazed upon its blight and scathe, Flies with the swift Chamois from its death-dooming path. |