ELEGIAC STANZAS. The lamented Youth whose untimely death gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick William Goddard, from Boston, in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided for some time with a clergyman in the neighborhood of Geneva, for the completion of his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out on a Swiss tour, when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, took leave of each other at night, the young men having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the morning my friend found his new acquaintances, who were informed of the object of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student became in consequence our travelling companions for a couple of days. We ascended the Righi together; and after contemplating the sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva; but on the third succeeding day (on the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of Kusnacht, which records the premature fate of the young American, and on the shores too of the lake the traveller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves. LULLED by the sound of pastoral bells, Where, in her holy Chapel, dwells "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 A countenance that as sweetly smiled, And we were gay, our hearts at ease; If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days — but hush — no more! Oh GODDARD! what art thou? -a name A sunbeam followed by a shade! We met, while festive mirth ran wild, With current swift and undefiled, The towers of old LUCERNE. We parted upon solemn ground, Fetch, sympathizing Powers of air, Beloved by every gentle Muse 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, 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. Not vain is sadly-uttered praise: The words of truth's memorial vow, As evening's fondly lingering rays, Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, The rising pang to smother. A POET'S EPITAPH. ART thou a Statist, in the van Of public conflicts trained and bred? First learn to love one living man; Then may'st thou think upon the dead. A Lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh! Art thou a man of purple cheer? A rosy Man, right plump to see? Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near, This grave no cushion is for thee. Or art thou one of gallant pride, A Soldier, and no man of chaff? Welcome! - but lay thy sword aside, And lean upon a peasant's staff. Physician art thou? one, all eyes, Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod; And he has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling An intellectual All-in-all! Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch |