Confessed no law but what his reason taught,

Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought.
As Man in his primeval dower arrayed

The image of his glorious Sire displayed,
Even so, by vestal Nature guarded, here
The traces of primeval Man appear;
The native dignity no forms debase,
The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace.
The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord,
His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword;
Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared
With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard."

And, as his native hills encircle ground
For many a wondrous victory renowned,
The work of Freedom daring to oppose,
With few in arms *, innumerable foes,
When to those glorious fields his steps are led,
An unknown power connects him with the dead:
For images of other worlds are there;
Awful the light, and holy is the air.

Uncertain through his fierce uncultured soul,
Like lighted tempests, troubled transports roll;
To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain,
Beyond the senses and their little reign.

* Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small numbers have gained over their oppressors, the house of Austria; and, in particular, to one fought at Næffels near Glarus, where three hundred and thirty men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out, as I was told upon the 'spot, the several places where the Austrians attempting to make a stand were repulsed anew.

And oft, when passed that solemn vision by,
He holds with God himself communion high,
Where the dread peal of swelling torrents fills
The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills;
Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow
Reclined, he sees, above him and below,
Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow;
While needle peaks of granite shooting bare
Tremble in ever-varying tints of air:

Great joy, by horror tamed, dilates his heart,
And the near heavens their own delights impart.
When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell,
Alps overlooking Alps their state up-swell;
Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Storms*,
Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms,
In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread,
Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red.

When downward to his winter hut he goes,
Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows;
That hut which from the hills his eye employs
So oft, the central point of all his joys.
And as a Swift, by tender cares opprest,
Peeps often ere she dart into her nest,

So to the untrodden floor, where round him looks
His father, helpless as the babe he rocks,
Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair,
Till storm and driving ice blockade him there.
There, safely guarded by the woods behind,
He hears the chiding of the baffled wind,
Hears Winter, calling all his Terrors round,
Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound.

* As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror; Wetter-Horn, the pike of storms, &c. &c.

Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide,
Unstain'd by envy, discontent, and pride;
The bound of all his vanity, to deck,

With one bright bell, a favourite Heifer's neck;
Well pleased upon some simple annual feast,
Remembered half the year and hoped the rest,
If dairy produce from his inner hoard

Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board.

Alas! in every clime a flying ray

Is all we have to cheer our wintry way.

"Here," cried a thoughtful Swain, upon whose head
The "blossoms of the grave" were thinly spread,
Last night, while by his dying fire, as closed
The day, in luxury my limbs reposed,

"Here Penury oft from Misery's mount will guide Even to the summer door his icy tide,

And here the avalanche of Death destroy
The little cottage of domestic joy.

But, ah! the unwilling mind may more than trace
The general sorrows of the human race:
The churlish gales, that unremitting blow
Cold from necessity's continual snow,
To us the gentle groups of bliss deny
That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie.

Yet more;-compelled by Powers which only deign
That solitary man disturb their reign,
Powers that support a never-ceasing strife
With all the tender charities of life,
The father, as his sons of strength become
To pay the filial debt, for food to roam,
From his bare nest amid the storms of heaven
Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven;
His last dread pleasure watches to the plain-
And never, eagle-like, beholds again!"

When the poor heart has all its joys resigned,
Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind?
Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves,
Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves;

Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell,
Unlocking tender thought's "memorial cell;"
Past pleasures are transform'd to mortal pains,
While poison spreads along the listener's veins,
Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave,
Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave.*

Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume!
Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume!
Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn,
And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return!
Soon flies the little joy to man allowed,
And grief before him travels like a cloud:
For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage,
Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age,
Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath
Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death.

'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine Between interminable tracts of pine,

A Temple stands, which holds an awful shrine,
By an uncertain light revealed, that falls
On the mute Image and the troubled walls:
Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear,
Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear;
While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd,
Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud.

* The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des Vaches upon the Swiss troops.

Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain
That views undimmed Ensiedlen's* wretched fane.
'Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet,
Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet;
While, loud and dull, ascends the weeping cry,
Surely in other thoughts contempt may die.
If the sad grave of human ignorance bear
One flower of hope-oh, pass and leave it there!
The tall Sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire,
Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire;
Now let us meet the Pilgrims ere the day
Close on the remnant of their weary way;
While they are drawing toward the sacred floor
Where the charmed worm of pain shall gnaw no more.
How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste

The fountains + reared for them amid the waste!
There some with tearful kiss each other greet,
And some, with reverence, wash their toil-worn feet.
Yes, I will see you when ye first behold
Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold,
In that glad moment when the hands are prest
In mute devotion on the thankful breast.

Last let us turn to where Chamoùny

shields

With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields:
Five streams of ice amid her cots descend,

And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend ;

This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multitudes, from every corner of the Catholic world, labouring under mental or bodily afflictions.

+ Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the accommodation of the Pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain.

This word is pronounced upon the spot Châmouny: I have taken the liberty of changing the accent.