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!
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!
O GODDARD! what art thou?
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!
Beloved by every gentle Muse
He left his Transatlantic home:
Europe, a realized romance,
Had opened on his eager glance;
Though lodged within no vigorous frame,
His soul her daily tasks renewed,
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings
High poised, or as the wren that sings
In shady places, to proclaim
Her modest gratitude.
Not vain is sadly-uttered praise ;
The words of truth's memorial vow
Are sweet as morning fragrance shed
From flowers 'mid GOLDAU's ruins bred;
As evening's fondly-lingering rays,
On RIGHI's silent brow.
Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid;
And piety shall guard the Stone
Which hath not left the spot unknown
Where the wild waves resigned their prey, -
And that which marks thy bed.
And when thy Mother weeps for thee,
Lost Youth! a solitary Mother;
This tribute from a casual Friend
A not unwelcome aid may lend,
To feed the tender luxury,
The rising pang to smother.*
*The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afflicted Mother felt was de rived from this tribute to her Son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her Daughter, who visited Europe some years afterwards. — Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg.
SKY-PROSPECT, - FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE.
Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape
Of a proud Ararat! and, thereupon,
The Ark, her melancholy voyage done!
Yon rampant cloud mimics a lion's shape;
There, combats a huge crocodile, agape
A golden spear to swallow! and that brown
And massy grove, so near yon blazing town,
Stirs and recedes, destruction to escape!
as the Elysian shades
Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed repose,
Silently disappears, or quickly fades:
Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows, That for oblivion take their daily birth
From all the fuming vanities of Earth!
ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOR OF BOULOGNE.*
WHY cast ye back upon the Gallic shore,
Ye furious waves! a patriotic Son
Of England, who in hope her coast had won,
His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er?
Well, let him pace this noted beach once more,
That gave the Roman his triumphal shells;
That saw the Corsican his cap and bells
Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror ! -
Enough my Country's cliffs I can behold,
And proudly think, beside the chafing sea,
Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled,
And folly cursed with endless memory:
These local recollections ne'er can cloy;
Such ground I from my very heart enjoy!
AFTER LANDING. THE VALLEY OF DOVER. Nov., 1820.
WHERE be the noisy followers of the game
Which faction breeds; the turmoil where? that
Through Europe, echoing from the newsman's blast,
And filled our hearts with grief for England's shame.
Peace greets us;
- rambling on without an aim,
We mark majestic herds of cattle, free
To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea;
And hear far off the mellow horn proclaim
The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound
Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight,
While consciousnesses, not to be disowned,
Here only serve a feeling to invite
That lifts the spirit to a calmer height,
And makes this rural stillness more profound.
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