ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS.
SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ.
"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!
ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS.*
FOR gentlest uses, ofttimes Nature takes
The work of Fancy from her willing hands;
And such a beautiful creation makes
As renders needless spells and magic wands,
And for the boldest tale belief commands.
When first mine eyes beheld that famous Hill,
The sacred ENGELBERG, celestial Bands,
With intermingling motions soft and still,
Hung round its top, on wings that changed their
Clouds do not name those Visitants; they were The very Angels whose authentic lays,
Sung from that heavenly ground in middle air,
Made known the spot where piety should raise
A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise.
Resplendent Apparition! if in vain.
My ears did listen, 't was enough to gaze;
And watch the slow departure of the train,
Whose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted to
detain.
MEEK Virgin Mother, more benign
Than fairest Star, upon the height
Of thy own mountain * set to keep
Lone vigils through the hour of sleep,
What eye can look upon thy shrine
Untroubled at the sight?
These crowded offerings, as they hang
In sight 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 aerial cleft,
As to a common centre, tend
All sufferers that no more rely
On mortal succor, - all who sigh
And pine, of human hope bereft,
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,
Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled,
OUR LADY OF THE SNOW.
Even for the Man who stops not here,
But down the irriguous valley hies,
Thy very name, O Lady! flings
O'er blooming fields and gushing springs
A tender sense of shadowy fear,
And chastening sympathies!
Nor falls that intermingling shade
To summer-gladsomeness unkind:
It chastens only to requite
With gleams of fresher, purer light;
While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade,
More sweetly breathes the wind.
a tempting downward way,
A verdant path, before us lies;
Clear shines the glorious sun above;
Then give free course to joy and love,
Deeming the evil of the day
Sufficient for the wise.
IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER OF TELL, AT
THIS Tower stands upon the spot where grew the LindenTree 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 valor, 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 school-ward, ape what ye behold; Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold!
And when that calm Spectatress from on high
Looks down, the bright and solitary Moon,
Who never gazes but to beautify;
And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune
That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls;
Then might the passing Monk receive a boon
Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls,
While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing lustre
falls.
How blest the souls who when their trials come Yield not to terror or despondency,
But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom, Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he Expectant stands beneath the linden-tree:
He quakes not like the timid forest game,
But smiles,
the hesitating shaft to free;
Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim,
And to his father give its own unerring aim.
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