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How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with Evening hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The Boat her silent course pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream!
A little moment past so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterers beguiling.

Such views the youthful Bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
--And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!

Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow!



GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide,

O Thames! that other Bards may see

As lovely visions by thy side

As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow,

As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought!-Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen

The image of a Poet's heart,

How bright, how solemn, how serene!

Such as did once the Poet bless,

Who, murmuring here a later* ditty,

Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.

Now let us, as we float along,
For him suspend the dashing oar;
And pray that never Child of Song
May know that Poet's sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
-The evening darkness gathers round
By virtue's holiest powers attended.

* Colins' Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his lifetime. This Ode is also alluded to in the nex. stanza.



No sad vacuities his heart annoy,

Blows not a zephyr but it whispers joy;

For him the loneliest flowers their sweets exhale;

He marks" the meanest note that swells the gale;"

For him sod seats the cottage-door adorn,

And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourne.

Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head,

And dear the velvet green sward to his tread;
Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye?
Upward he looks-" and calls it luxury;"
Kind Nature's charities his steps attend;
In every babbling brook he finds a friend;

Whilst chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed

By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road.

Host of his welcome inn, the noontide bower,
To his spare meal he calls the passing poor;
He views the Sun uplift his golden fire,
Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's* lyre;
Blesses the Moon that comes with kindly ray,
To light him shaken by his viewless way;
With bashful fear no cottage children steal
From him, a brother at the cottage meal;
His humble looks no shy restraint impart,
Around him plays at will the virgin heart.
While unsuspended wheels the village dance,
The maidens eye him with inquiring glance,
Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care
Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there.

I sigh at hoary Chartreusè doom.

Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe
Tamed "sober Reason" till she crouched in fear?
That breathed a death-like silence wide around.

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The cloister startles at the gleam of arms,
And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms;
Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled heads;
Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night o'erspreads.
Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs,
And start the astonish'd shades at female eyes.
The thundering tube the aged angler hears,
And swells the groaning torrent with his tears.
From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay,
And slow the insulted eagle wheels away.
The cross, with hideous laughter, Demons mock,
By Angels planted on the aerial rock.

The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath

The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melancholy or cheerful tones,

as it was touched by the sun's evening or morning rays.

Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible.

Along the mystic streams of* Life and Death.
Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds
Portentous, through her old woods' trackless bounds,
Vallombre,† 'mid her falling fanes, deplores,
For ever broke, the Sabbath of her bowers.

More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves
Of Como bosomed deep in chesnut groves.
No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps
Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps.
To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain,
To ringing team unknown and grating wain,
To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound,
Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound,
Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling,
And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling;
Wild round the steeps the little pathway twines,
And Silence loves its purple roof of vines.
The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees
From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees;
Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids
Tend the small harvest of their garden glades,
Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view
Stretch, o'er the pictured mirror, broad and blue,
Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep,
As up the opposing hills, with tortoise foot they creep.
Here, half a village shines, in gold arrayed,
Bright as the moon; half hides itself in shade.
From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire,
Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire.
There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw
Rich golden verdure on the waves below.
Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore,
And steals into the shade the lazy oar;
Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs,
And amorous music on the water dies.

How bless'd, delicious scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats;

The unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales;

The never-ending waters of thy vales;

The cots, those dim religious groves embower,

Or, under rocks that from the water tower

Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore;

Each with his household boat beside the door,

Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop,

Brightening the gloom where thick the forests stoop;
-Thy torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
Thy towns, like swallows' nests that cleave on high
That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descry'd

Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side,

Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods.

Names of rivers at the Chartreuse.

Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse.

While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps,
Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps;
-Thy lake, 'mid smoking woods, that blue and gray
Gleams, streaked or dappled, hid from morning's ray
Slow travelling down the western hills, to fold
Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold;
From thickly-glittering spires, the matin bell
Calling the woodman from his desert cell,
A summons to the sound of oars, that pass,
Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass;
Slow swells the service, o'er the water borne,
While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn.
Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene,
Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green,
Plunge with the Russ embrowned by Terror's breath,
Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death;
By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height,
Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight;
Black drizzling crags, that, beaten by the din,
Vibrate, as if a voice complain'd within;
Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks, afraid,
Unsteadfast, by a blasted yew upstayed;
By cells whose image, trembling as he prays,
Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys;
Loose-hanging rocks the Day's bless'd eye that hide,
And crossest rear'd to Death on every side,
Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near,
And, bending, water'd with the human tear,
That faded "silent" from her upward eye,
Unmov'd with each rude form of Danger nigh,
Fixed on the anchor left by him who saves
Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves.

On as we move, a softer prospect opes,
Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes.
While mists, suspended on th' expiring gale,
Moveless o'erhang the deep secluded vale,
The beams of evening, slipping soft between,
Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene;
Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade,
The still vale lengthens underneath the shade;
While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede,
Green dewy lights adorn the freshened mead,
On the low brown wood-huts delighted sleep
Along the brightened gloom reposing deep.

While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull,
And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull,

In solemn shapes before the admiring eye

Dilated hang the misty pines on high,

Huge convent domes with pinnacles and tow'rs,

The Catholic religion prevails here; these cells are, as is well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like the Roman tombs, along the road side.

+ Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the fall of snow and other accidents, very common along this dreadful road.

The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built of wood.

And antique castles seen thro' drizzling show'rs.
From such romantic dreams my soul awake,
Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake,
Where, by the unpathwayed margin, still and dread,
Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread.
Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach
Far o'er the secret water dark with beech;
More high, to where creation seems to end,
Shade above shade, the desert pines ascend,
Yet with his infants, man undaunted creeps
And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps.
Where'er below amid the savage scene
Peeps out a little speck of smiling green.
A garden-plot the desert air perfumes,
Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms,
A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff,
Treading the painful crag, surmounts the cliff.
-Before those hermit doors, that never know
The face of traveller passing to and fro,
No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell
For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell;
Their watch-dog ne er his angry bark forgoes,
Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes;
The grassy seat beneath their casement shade
The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stay'd.
-There, did the iron genius not disdain
The gentle power that haunts the myrtle plain,
There, might the love-sick maiden sit, and chide
The insuperable rocks and severing tide;
There, watch at eve her lover's sun-gilt sail
Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale;
There, list at midnight till is heard no more,
Below, the echo of his parting oar;

There, hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream,
To guide his dangerous tread, the taper's gleam.

'Mid stormy vapours ever driving by,
Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry,
Where hardly given the hopeless waste to cheer,
Denied the bread of life, the foodful ear,
Dwindles the pear on Autumn's latest spray,
And apples sicken pale in Summer's ray;
Even here Content has fixed her smiling reign
With Independence, child of high Disdain.
Exulting mid the Winter of the skies,
Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies,
And often grasps her sword, and often eyes;
Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine,

Strange "weeds" and Alpine plants her helm entwine,
And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast,

While thrills the "Spartan fife," between the blast.

"Tis storm; and, hid in mist from hour to hour, All day the floods a deepening murmur pour; The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight:

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