"WHAT know we of the Blest above
But that they sing and that they love?"
Yet, if they ever did inspire

A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir,
Now, where those harvest Damsels float
Homeward in their rugged Boat,
(While all the ruffling winds are fled—
Each slumbering on some mountain's head)
Now, surely, hath that gracious aid
Been felt, that influence is displayed.
Pupils of Heaven, in order stand
The rustic Maidens, every hand
Upon a Sister's shoulder laid, ——
To chant, as glides the boat along,
A simple, but a touching, song;
To chant, as Angels do above,
The melodies of Peace in love!

XVII

ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS1 FOR gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes The work of Fancy from her willing hands; 1 See Note.

XVIII

OUR LADY OF THE SNOW
MEEK Virgin Mother, more benign
Than fairest Star, upon the height
Of thy own mountain,2 set to keep
Lone vigils through the hours of sleep,
What eye can look upon thy shrine
Untroubled at the sight?

These crowded offerings as they hang
In sign of misery relieved,
Even these, without intent of theirs,
Report of comfortless despairs,
Of many a deep and cureless pang
And confidence deceived.

To Thee, in this aërial cleft,
As to a common centre, tend
All sufferers that no more rely
On mortal succour-all who sigh
And pine, of human hope berest,
Nor wish for earthly friend.

And hence, O Virgin Mother mild !
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow
Not only from the dreary strife
Of Winter, but the storms of life,
2 Mount Righi.

This Tower stands upon the spot where grew the Linden Tree against which his Son is said to have been placed, when the Father's archery was put to proof under circumstances so famous in Swiss Story.

WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here,

Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow On Marathonian valour, yet the tear Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show, While narrow cares their limits overflow. Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old,

Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go Homeward or schoolward, ape what ye behold!

XX

THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ

By antique Fancy trimmed-though lowly, bred

To dignity-in thee, O SCHWYTZ! are seen
The genuine features of the golden mean;
Equality by Prudence governed,

Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead;
And, therefore, art thou blest with peace,

serene

As that of the sweet fields and meadows green

In unambitious compass round thee spread. Majestic BERNE, high on her guardian

steep,

Holding a central station of command, Might well be styled this noble body's HEAD;

Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrenchments deep,

bold!

And when that calm Spectatress from on high

Looks down-the bright and solitary Moon, Who never gazes but to beautify;

keep!1

1 Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of the French Invasion) had elapsed, when, for the first time, foreign soldiers were seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, to impose upon it the laws of their governors.

The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rocky eminence that rises from the plain at the head of the Lake of Como, commanding views up the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direction is characterised by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced at being favoured with a distinct view of those Alpine heights; not, as we had expected from the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion with clouds floating or stationary-scatterings from heaven. The Ruin is interesting both in mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon elaborately sculptured marble lying on the ground, records that the Fort had been erected by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of Philip the Third; and the Chapel, about twenty years after, by one of his Descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet standing, and a considerable part of the Chapel walls: a smooth green turf has taken place of the pavement, and we could see no trace of altar or image; but everywhere something to remind one of former splendour, and of devastation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with bushes near the ruins were some ill tended, but

growing willingly; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was growing in great beauty. While descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the ruined Chapel, a statue of a Child in pure white marble, uninjured by the explosion that had driven it so far down the hill. "How little," we exclaimed, "are these things valued here! Could we but transport this pretty Image to our own garden!"-Yet it seemed it would have been a pity any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years.-Extract from Journal.

DREAD hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast,

This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian

stone

So far from the holy enclosure was cast, To couch in this thicket of brambles alone,

To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm

Of his half-open hand pure from blemish

or speck;

And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the calm

Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his neck;

Where haply (kind service to Piety due!) When winter the grove of its mantle

bereaves,

Some bird (like our own honoured redbreast) may strew

The desolate Slumberer with moss and with leaves.

FUENTES once harboured the good and the brave,

Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown;

Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave While the thrill of her fifes thro' the

mountains was blown:

Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless ascent;

O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway, When the whirlwind of human destruction is spent,

Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away!

XXIII

THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR SEEN FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO

This Church was almost destroyed by lightning a few years ago, but the altar and the image of the Patron Saint were untouched. The Mount, upon the summit of which the Church is built, stands amid the intricacies of the Lake of Lugano; and is, from a hundred points of view, its principal ornament, rising to the height of 2000 feet, and on one side nearly perpendicular. The ascent is toilsome; but the traveller who performs it will be amply rewarded. Splendid fertility, rich woods and dazzling waters, seclusion and confinement of view contrasted with sealike extent of plain fading into the sky; and this again, in an opposite quarter, with an horizon of the loftiest and boldest Alps-unite in composing a prospect more diversified by magnificence, beauty, and sublimity, than perhaps any other point in Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, commands.

Did mighty Tell repair of oldA Hero cast in Nature's mould, Deliverer of the stedfast rocks And of the ancient hills!

He, too, of battle-martyrs chief!
Who, to recall his daunted peers,
For victory shaped an open space,
By gathering with a wide embrace,
Into his single breast, a sheaf
Of fatal Austrian spears.1

XXIV

THE ITALIAN ITINERANT AND THE SWISS GOATHERD.

PART I

I

Now that the farewell tear is dried,
Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!
Whether for London bound-to trill
Thy mountain notes with simple skill;
Or on thy head to poise a show
Of Images in seemly row;
The graceful form of milk-white Steed,
Or Bird that soared with Ganymede;
Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear
The sightless Milton, with his hair
Around his placid temples curled;
And Shakspeare at his side-a freight,
If clay could think and mind were weight,
For him who bore the world!
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!

II

But thou, perhaps, (alert as free
Though serving sage philosophy)
Wilt ramble over hill and dale,
A Vender of the well-wrought Scale,
Whose sentient tube instructs to time

A purpose to a fickle clime:
Whether thou choose this useful part,
Or minister to finer art,

1 Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of Sempach, broke an Austrian phalanx in this manner. The event is one of the most famous in the annals of Swiss heroism; and pictures and prints of it are frequent throughout the country.

My Song, encouraged by the grace
That beams from his ingenuous face,
For this Adventurer scruples not
To prophesy a golden lot;
Due recompence, and safe return
TO COMO's steeps-his happy bourne!
Where he, aloft in garden glade,

Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid,
The towering maize, and prop the twig
That ill supports the luscious fig;
Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof
With purple of the trellis-roof,
That through the jealous leaves escapes
From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes.
-Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child
To share his wanderings! him whose look
Even yet my heart can scarcely brook,
So touchingly he smiled-

As with a rapture caught from heaven-
For unasked alms in pity given.

PART II

I

WITH nodding plumes, and lightly drest
Like foresters in leaf-green vest,
The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground
For Tell's dread archery renowned,
Before the target stood-to claim
The guerdon of the steadiest aim.
Loud was the rifle-gun's report—
A startling thunder quick and short!
But, flying through the heights around,
Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound
Of hearts and hands alike "prepared
The treasures they enjoy to guard!"'
And, if there be a favoured hour
When Heroes are allowed to quit
The tomb, and on the clouds to sit
With tutelary power,

But Truth inspired the Bards of old
When of an iron age they told,
Which to unequal laws gave birth,
And drove Astræa from the earth.
-A gentle Boy (perchance with blood
As noble as the best endued,

But seemingly a Thing despised ;
Even by the sun and air unprized;
For not a tinge or flowery streak
Appeared upon his tender cheek)
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes,
Apart, beside his silent goats,
Sate watching in a forest shed,
Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head;
Mute as the snow upon the hill,
And, as the saint he prays to, still.
Ah, what avails heroic deed?

What liberty? if no defence

Be won for feeble Innocence.

Father of all! though wilful Manhood read His punishment in soul-distress,

Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness!

XXV

THE LAST SUPPER

BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, IN THE REFECTORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA DELLA GRAZIA-MILAN1

THO' searching damps and many an envious flaw

Have marred this Work; the calm ethereal grace,

The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
The Elements; as they do melt and thaw
The heart of the Beholder-and erase
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace
Of disobedience to the primal law.
The annunciation of the dreadful truth
Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead,
cheek,

And hand reposing on the board in ruth
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek
Unquestionable meanings-still bespeak
A labour worthy of eternal youth!

1 See Note.