| |
| NO more of cities, with their proud cathedrals, | |
| And pomp and pleasures of their trampled ways. | |
| Of bounds of empire, and of nations’ quarrels, | |
| I write no more. Upon “Louisa’s Rest” | |
| Alone I sit. Its canopy of thatch | 5 |
| Fends off the sun; while tender memories, | |
| That are not mine, seem floating vaguely round me. | |
| A sweeter picture looks from out the lake | |
| Than hangs within the famed Pinacothek | |
| Of Munich, or in Dresden’s long-drawn halls. | 10 |
| Before me rise the domes and pinnacles | |
| Of nature’s temples to the God of nature, | |
| From his own hand; all shining stainless white, | |
| So as no art on earth could whiten them. | |
| No sound is there but of the lighting snow, | 15 |
| And driving wind, and avalanche. No wing | |
| Of bird can scale those inaccessible heights, | |
| Or beat in that thin air. Man plants no footstep | |
| Upon those trackless wastes; claims no dominion | |
| O’er these wide bounds. Here his pretension stops. | 20 |
| |
| I gaze upon you with unsated eye, | |
| Ye changeless, ever changing on the sight! | |
| Far on the better hand, the Blumlis Alp | |
| Spreads its vast slopes, and closes up the scene | |
| On that side. Full in front, and on the left, | 25 |
| Stand forth the wondrous Three, to me the peerless. | |
| Eastmost, the Eiger with his rigid share | |
| Furrows the sky. The Monk is next in place, | |
| Not all unfitly named. The cowl hangs down | |
| Over its ample brow. The folded snows | 30 |
| Are sleeves and trailing garments. But the Maid! | |
| O crown of beauty! If the Savoyard | |
| Is called the king of mountains, surely thee | |
| All hearts pay homage to, and hail as queen. | |
| Say, is it fancy only, as, methinks, | 35 |
| The Jungfrau wears the semblance of a woman? | |
| Or who will think I lower it, when I trace | |
| This gentlest likeness on so dread a height? | |
| A pale face, not too pale for beauty, shines, | |
| Framed round in shadows, near the mountain’s top; | 40 |
| The top itself a covering for the head, | |
| Slightly aslant set on, as best becomes it; | |
| The white plume floating down o’er miles of space. | |
| |
| And now I go, looking my last upon you. | |
| I saw you through the haze from Rigi Culm; | 45 |
| You rose in pride o’er tinkling Interlaken, | |
| And talked to me across the Wengern Alp. | |
| And this is past. My blessing be on those, | |
| Who in all time shall thus salute and leave you. | |
| I shall see other mountains; Wetterhorns, | 50 |
| Schreckhorns; and Faulhorns, that men love to climb; | |
| Some sprinkled scantily with frost, and some | |
| Thick with eternal winter; others yet, | |
| Enormous saws of sharp and splintered crag, | |
| Which the soft snows refuse to cover up, | 55 |
| With ruin at their feet,—like lubber giants, | |
| That stone the traveller, and crush the village | |
| Of wretched dwellers in such wretched spots. | |
| Mont Blanc will tower o’er narrow Chamounix, | |
| And stretch to far Sallenche its breadths of glory. | 60 |
| But you, ye matchless Three, I lose forever, | |
| Save in the memory of this scene and hour. | |
| |
| Farewell thy leafy quiet, and thy lake | |
| Rimmed as with sculptured silver, sweet Chartreuse. | |
| |
