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Nor falls that intermingling shade
To summer-gladsomeness unkind:
It chastens only to requite

With gleams of fresher, purer light;
While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade,
More sweetly breathes the wind.

But on!

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a tempting downward way,

A verdant path, before us lies;

Clear shines the glorious sun above;
Then give free course to joy and love,
Deeming the evil of the day
Sufficient for the wise.





THIS Tower stands upon the spot where grew the LindenTree against which his son is said to have been placed, when the father's archery was put to proof under circumstances so famous in Swiss story.

WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here, Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow

On Marathonian valor, yet the tear

Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show,

While narrow cares their limits overflow.

Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old, Infants in arms, and ye, that, as ye go

Homeward or school-ward, ape what ye behold; Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold!

And when that calm Spectatress from on high
Looks down, the bright and solitary Moon,
Who never gazes but to beautify;

And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune

That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls;
Then might the passing Monk receive a boon
Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls,
While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing lustre

How blest the souls who when their trials come
Yield not to terror or despondency,

But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom,
Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he
Expectant stands beneath the linden-tree:
He quakes not like the timid forest game,
But smiles, the hesitating shaft to free;
Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim,
And to his father give its own unerring aim.

To dignity,



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By antique Fancy trimmed, though lowly, bred in thee, O SCHWYTZ! are seen The genuine features of the golden mean; Equality by Prudence governèd,

Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead;

And therefore art thou blest with peace, serene
As that of the sweet fields and meadows green
In unambitious compass round thee spread.
Majesty BERNE, high on her guardian steep,
Holding a central station of command,

Might well be styled this noble body's HEAD;
Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous intrenchments


Its HEART; and ever may the heroic Land
Thy name, O SCHWYTZ! in happy freedom keep.*

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*Nearly five hundred years (says Ebel, speaking of the French Invasion) had elapsed, when, for the first time, foreigr soldiers were seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, to impose upon it the laws of their governors.

Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect With tenderest passion; leaving him to pine (So fame reports) and die, his sweet-breath'd kine

Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject

The tale as fabulous.

Are moved, for me,

Here while I recline,

Mindful how others by this simple Strain

upon this Mountain named

Of God himself from dread pre-eminence,
Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed,
Yield to the Music's touching influence;
And joys of distant home my heart enchain.



THE Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rocky emi dence that rises from the plain at the head of the Lake of Como, commanding views up the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direction is characterized by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced at being favored with a distinct view of those Alpine heights; not, as we had expected from the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion with clouds floating or stationary, scatterings from heaven. The Ruin is interesting both in mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon elaborately sculptured marble lying on the ground, records that the Fort had been erected by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of Philip the Third; and the chapel, about twenty years after, by one of his descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet stand

ing, and a considerable part of the Chapel walls: a smooth green turf has taken place of the pavement, and we could see no trace of altar or image; but everywhere something to remind one of former splendor, and of devastation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with bushes: near the ruins were some ill tended, but growing willingly; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-colored pink was growing in great beauty. While descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the ruined Chapel, a statue of a Child in pure white marble, uninjured by the explosion that had driven it so far down the hill. "How little," we exclaimed, are these things valued here! Could we but transport this pretty Image to our own garden!" - Yet it seemed it would have been a pity any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years. — Extract from Journal.


DREAD hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast,

This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone So far from the holy inclosure was cast,

To couch in this thicket of brambles alone,

To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm
Of his half-open hand, pure from blemish or speck,
And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the

Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his


Where haply, (kind service to Piety due!)

When Winter the grove of its mantle bereaves,

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