Some bird (like our own honored redbreast) may

strew

The desolate Slumberer with moss and with

leaves.

FUENTES Once harbored 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 through 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!

XXIV.

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 2,000 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 sea-like 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.

THOU sacred Pile! whose turrets rise
From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage,
Guarded by lone San Salvador;
Sink (if thou must) as heretofore,
To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice,
But ne'er to human rage!

On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned
To rest the Universal Lord:

Why leap the fountains from their cells
Where everlasting Bounty dwells? —
That, while the Creature is sustained,
His God may be adored.

Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times,
Let all remind the soul of heaven;
Our slack devotion needs them all;
And Faith- so oft of sense the thrall,
While she, by aid of Nature, climbs

May hope to be forgiven.

Glory, and patriotic Love,

And all the Pomps of this frail "spot

Which men call Earth," have yearned to seek,

Associate with the simply meek,
Religion in the sainted grove,
And in the hallowed grot.

Thither, in time of adverse shocks,
Of fainting hopes and backward wills,
Did mighty Tell repair of old, -
A Hero cast in Nature's mould,
Deliverer of the steadfast 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.*

XXV.

THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS GOATHERD.

PART I.

I.

Now that the farewell tear is dried,

Heaven prosper thee, be Hope thy guide!

*Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of Sempach, broke an Austrian phalanx in this manner. The event is one of the

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 Shakespeare 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,

Though robbed of many a cherished dream,
And crossed by many a shattered scheme,

most famous in the annals of Swiss heroism; and pictures and prints of it are frequent throughout the country.

What stirring wonders wilt thou see
In the proud Isle of Liberty!

Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine

With thoughts which no delights can chase,
Recall a Sister's last embrace,

His Mother's neck entwine

e;

Nor shall forget the Maiden coy

That would have loved the bright-haired Boy!

III.

My Song, encouraged by the grace
That beams from his ingenuous face,
For this Adventurer scruples not
To prophesy a golden lot;

Due recompense, 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 eyes in paths sun-proof
With purple of the trellis-roof,
That through the jealous leaves escapes
From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes.

O 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.