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

And oft, when pass'd 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 tam'd, dilates his heart, And the near heavens their own delights impart.

teen and twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with this inscription, 1888, 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.

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,
Ting'd 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 eyes 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.

Thro' Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide
Unstained 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 chear our wintery way.
“Here,” cried a Swain, upon whose hoary 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 thoughts "memorial cell;"
Past pleasures are transformed to mortal pains
And 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!

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

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.

Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain

That views undimmed Ensiedlen's * wretched fane,

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.