(An Acrostic Sonnet, composed in Petrarch's Garden.) [Vaucluse is about sixteen miles from Avignon, and was the favourite abode of Petrarch.] PILGRIMS of love, we sought this famed retreat, That saw so oft Petrarch his Laura greet; A dmiring nature much, each other most; Empires and centuries have passed away, Leaving behind them wrecks of human madness; Ascent of the Rigi. [Having read in "Murray that a book was kept in the Rigi, wherein travellers were invited to record their feelings in verse, these lines were composed with that object; but I found the book had disappeared soon after the establishment of railways in Switzerland.] I FRIENDS, Britons, countrymen! I don't pretend To be a poet born; but 'tis the duty Of all men who this mountain top ascend So, not to be behindhand in my zeal, 2 And to begin; let me at once declare My satisfaction to have reached the top, Along those nine miles of continuous stair, That seemed as though it never meant to stop; But since to climb the Rigi is the fashion, It's no use putting one's self in a passion. 3 Thank heaven! the deed is done; and here I stand, Surveying, like a map, the world below; Yon giant Alps uplift their summits grand, Poking sharp snouts from beds of dazzling snow; Below, a perfect maze of lakes and valleysAll which with "Murray's Handbook" truly tallies. 4 In fact, therein you 'll find, completely booked, All that e'en poet's brain has ever cooked; To rival which my own poor powers might fail ; Therefore, to save my readers from the worry, I'll wind up by referring them to "Murray." A Perilous Ascent of the Ortler-Spitz. (Dedicated to the Alpine Club.) [Having perused in the Hotel book at Trafoi, on Mount Stelvio, sundry magniloquent descriptions, by members of the Alpine Club, of their wonderful ascents of the "Ortler-Spitz," I felt an irresistible ambition to surpass them all, and the following remarkable results rewarded my efforts.] HAVING read all the records in the book, And swallowed all the choice viands of the cook, Somehow, my sleep was troubled; visions drear My wife declared I snored! I don't believe her; For, was not woman ever man's deceiver? At three precisely from repose I started, Nor once looked back, nor pretext found to stop, Glaciers and precipices all in vain Opposed my path; nought could my feet detain; Not Beelzebub himself could my mad march restrain! Hurrah! at last on Ortler's snow-capped pate I crowed in triumph-" Cock-a-doodle-doo!" My senses fled ! Crash! Waking, lo! I found My poor old carcass sprawling on the ground; |