LULLED by the sound of pastoral bells, | |
| Rude Nature’s pilgrims did we go, | |
| From the dread summit of the queen | |
| Of mountains, through a deep ravine, | |
| Where, in her holy chapel, dwells | 5 |
| “Our Lady of the Snow.” | |
| |
| The sky was blue, the air was mild; | |
| Free were the streams and green the bowers: | |
| As if, to rough assaults unknown, | |
| The genial spot had ever shown | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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!—no more! | 20 |
| 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 name,— | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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: | 50 |
| Europe, a realized romance, | |
| Had opened on his eager glance; | |
| What present bliss! what golden views! | |
| What stores for years to come! | |
| |
| Though lodged within no vigorous frame, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| 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 | 65 |
| 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 | 70 |
| 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 | 75 |
| A not unwelcome aid may lend, | |
| To feed the tender luxury, | |
| The rising pang to smother. | |
| |
