'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;
At such an hour there are who love to stray,
And meet the advancing Pilgrims ere the day
Close on the remnant of their weary way.
Now with a tearful kiss each other greet,
Nor longer naked be your toil-worn feet,
For ye are drawing tow'rd that sacred floor,
Where the charmed worm of pain shall gnaw no
How gayly murmur and how sweetly taste
fountains reared for you amid the waste! Yes I will see you when you first behold Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, In that glad moment when the hands are pressed, In mute devotion on the thankful breast.
Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the accommodation of the Pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain.
Last let us turn to where Chamoùny * shields, Bosomed in gloomy woods, her fertile fields; Five streams of ice amid her cots descend,
And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend.
A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns
Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains;
Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd,
Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand.
Red stream the cottage-lights; the landscape
Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades..
Alone ascends that Mountain named of white †,
That holds no commerce with the summer Night.
From age to age, amid his lonely bounds
The crash of ruin awfully resounds,
Mysterious havoc! but serene his brow,
Where day-light lingers 'mid perpetual snow;
Glitter the stars above, and all is black below.
At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh,
When roared the sullen Arve in anger by,
This word is pronounced upon the spot Chàmouny, I have taken the liberty of changing the accent.
It is only from the higher part of the valley of Chàmouny that Mont Blanc is visible.
That not for thy reward, delicious Vale!
Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine;
Hard lot!- for no Italian arts are thine
To cheat, or chear, to soften, or refine.
Beloved Freedom! were it mine to stray,
With shrill winds roaring round my lonely way,
O'er the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors,
Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores;
To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose,
And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows;
In the wide range of many a varied round,
Fleet as my passage was, I still have found
That where proud courts their blaze of gems display,
The lilies of domestic joy decay,
While the remotest hamlets blessings share
In thy dear presence known, and only there!
The casement's shed more luscious woodbine binds,
And to the door a neater pathway winds;
At early morn, the careful housewife, led
To cull her dinner from its garden bed,
Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees,
While hum with busier joy her happy bees;
In brighter rows her table wealth aspires,
And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires;
Her infants' cheeks with fresher roses glow,
And wilder graces sport around their brow;
By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board
Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard;
The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread,
And whiter is the hospitable bed.
And oh, fair France! though now along the shade
Where erst at will the grey-clad peasant strayed,
Gleam war's discordant garments through the trees,
And the red banner mocks the froward breeze;
Though now no more thy maids their voices suit
To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute,
And, heard the pausing village hum between,
No solemn songstress lull the fading green,
Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms,
And the short thunder, and the flash of arms;
While, as Night bids the startling uproar die,
Sole sound, the *Sourd renews his mournful cry!
* An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire,
Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her
Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door:
All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes
Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies.
Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide
Through rustling aspens heard from side to side,
When from October clouds a milder light
Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white,
Methought from every cot the watchful bird
Crowed with ear-piercing power 'till then unheard;
Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring
Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams;
Chasing those long long dreams, the falling leaf
Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief;
The measured echo of the distant flail
Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale;
A more majestic tide * the water roll'd,
And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold.
• The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land.
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