Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XIX. Effusion
In Presence Of The Painted Tower Of Tell, At Altorf


          WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here,
          Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow
          On Marathonian valour, 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 schoolward, ape what ye behold!
          Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold!

          And when that calm Spectatress from on high                 10
          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 falls.

          How blest the souls who when their trials come
          Yield not to terror or despondency,                         20
          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.

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XX. The Town Of Schwytz


          BY antique Fancy trimmed--though lowly, bred
          To dignity--in thee, O SCHWYTZ! are seen
          The genuine features of the golden mean;
          Equality by Prudence governed,
          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.
          Majestic BERNE, high on her guardian steep,
          Holding a central station of command,                       10
          Might well be styled this noble body's HEAD;
          Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrenchments deep,
          Its HEART; and ever may the heroic Land
          Thy name, O SCHWYTZ, in happy freedom keep!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XXI. On Hearing The "Ranz Des Vaches" On The Top Of The Pass Of St. Gothard


          I LISTEN--but no faculty of mine
          Avails those modulations to detect,
          Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect
          With tenderest passion; leaving him to pine
          (So fame reports) and die,--his sweet-breathed kine
          Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked
          With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject
          The tale as fabulous.--Here while I recline,
          Mindful how others by this simple Strain
          Are moved, for me--upou this Mountain named                 10
          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.

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XXII. Fort Fuentes


          DREAD hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast,
            This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone
          So far from the holy enclosure 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 calm
            Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his neck;

          Where haply (kind service to Piety due!)
            When winter the grove of its mantle bereaves,             10
          Some bird (like our own honoured redbreast) may strew
            The desolate Slumberer with moss and with leaves.

          FUENTES once harboured the good and the brave,
            Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown;
          Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave
            While the thrill of her fifes thro' the mountains was blown:

          Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless ascent;--
            O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway,
          When the whirlwind of human destruction is spent,
            Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away!        20

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XXIII. The Church Of San Salvador
Seen From The Lake Of Lugano


          THOU sacred Pile! whose turrets rise
          From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage,
          Guarded by lone San Salvador;
          Sink (if thou must) as heretofore,
          To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice,
          But ne'er to human rage!

          On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned
          To rest the universal Lord:
          Why leap the fountains from their cells
          Where everlasting Bounty dwells?--                          10
          That, while the Creature is sustained,
          His God may be adored.

          Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times--
          Let all remind the soul of heaven;
          Our slack devotion needs them all;
          And Faith--so oft of sense the thrall,
          While she, by aid of Nature, climbs--
          May hope to be forgiven.

          Glory, and patriotic Love,
          And all the Pomps of this frail "spot                       20
          Which men call Earth," have yearned to seek,
          Associate with the simply meek,
          Religion in the sainted grove,
          And in the hallowed grot.

          Thither, in time of adverse shocks,
          Of fainting hopes and backward wills,
          Did mighty Tell repair of old--
          A Hero cast in Nature's mould,
          Deliverer of the stedfast rocks
          And of the ancient hills!                                   30

          'He', too, of battle-martyrs chief!
          Who, to recall his daunted peers,
          For victory shaped an open space,
          By gathering with a wide embrace,
          Into his single breast, a sheaf
          Of fatal Austrian spears.

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XXIV. The Italian Itinerant And The Swiss Goatherd.
Part I


                                   I

          NOW that the farewell tear is dried,
          Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide
          Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;
          The wages of thy travel, joy!
          Whether for London bound--to trill
          Thy mountain notes with simple skill;
          Or on thy head to poise a show
          Of Images in seemly row;
          The graceful form of milk-white Steed,
          Or Bird that soared with Ganymede;
          Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear
          The sightless Milton, with his hair
          Around his placid temples curled;
          And Shakspeare at his side--a freight,
          If clay could think and mind were weight,
          For him who bore the world!
          Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;
          The wages of thy travel, joy!

                                   II

          But thou, perhaps, (alert as free
          Though serving sage philosophy)
          Wilt ramble over hill and dale,
          A Vender of the well-wrought Scale,
          Whose sentient tube instructs to time
          A purpose to a fickle clime:
          Whether thou choose this useful part,
          Or minister to finer art,
          Though robbed of many a cherished dream,
          And crossed by many a shattered scheme,
          What stirring wonders wilt thou see
          In the proud Isle of liberty!
          Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine
          With thoughts which no delights can chase,
          Recall a Sister's last embrace,
          His Mother's neck entwine;
          Nor shall forget the Maiden coy
          That 'would' have loved the bright-haired Boy!

                                  III

          My Song, encouraged by the grace
          That beams from his ingenuous face,
          For this Adventurer scruples not
          To prophesy a golden lot;
          Due recompence, and safe return
          TO COMO'S steeps--his happy bourne!
          Where he, aloft in garden glade,
          Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid,
          The towering maize, and prop the twig
          That ill supports the luscious fig;
          Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof
          With purple of the trellis-roof,
          That through the jealous leaves escapes
          From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes.
          --Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child
          To share his wanderings! him whose look
          Even yet my heart can scarcely brook,
          So touchingly he smiled--
          As with a rapture caught from heaven--
          For unasked alms in pity given.

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XXIV. The Italian Itinerant And The Swiss Goatherd.
Part II



                                I

          WITH nodding plumes, and lightly drest
          Like foresters in leaf-green vest,
          The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground
          For Tell's dread archery renowned,
          Before the target stood--to claim
          The guerdon of the steadiest aim.
          Loud was the rifle-gun's report--
          A startling thunder quick and short!
          But, flying through the heights around,
          Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound
          Of hearts and hands alike "prepared
          The treasures they enjoy to guard!"
          And, if there be a favoured hour
          When Heroes are allowed to quit
          The tomb, and on the clouds to sit
          With tutelary power,
          On their Descendants shedding grace--
          This was the hour, and that the place.

                                   II

          But Truth inspired the Bards of old
          When of an iron age they told,
          Which to unequal laws gave birth,
          And drove Astraea from the earth.
          --A gentle Boy (perchance with blood
          As noble as the best endued,
          But seemingly a Thing despised;
          Even by the sun and air unprized;
          For not a tinge or flowery streak
          Appeared upon his tender cheek)
          Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes,
          Apart, beside his silent goats,
          Sate watching in a forest shed,
          Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head;
          Mute as the snow upon the hill,
          And, as the saint he prays to, still.
          Ah, what avails heroic deed?
          What liberty? if no defence
          Be won for feeble Innocence.
          Father of all! though wilful Manhood read
          His punishment in soul-distress,
          Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XXV. The Last Supper
By Leonardo Da Vinci, In The Refectory Of The Convent Of Maria Della Grazia--Milan


          THO' searching damps and many an envious flaw
          Have marred this Work; the calm ethereal grace,
          The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
          The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
          The Elements; as they do melt and thaw
          The heart of the Beholder--and erase
          (At least for one rapt moment) every trace
          Of disobedience to the primal law.
          The annunciation of the dreadful truth
          Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek,         10
          And hand reposing on the board in ruth
          Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek
          Unquestionable meanings--still bespeak
          A labour worthy of eternal youth!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XXVI. The Eclipse Of The Sun, 1820


          HIGH on her speculative tower
          Stood Science waiting for the hour
          When Sol was destined to endure
          'That' darkening of his radiant face
          Which Superstition strove to chase,
          Erewhile, with rites impure.

          Afloat beneath Italian skies,
          Through regions fair as Paradise
          We gaily passed,--till Nature wrought
          A silent and unlooked-for change,                           10
          That checked the desultory range
          Of joy and sprightly thought.

          Where'er was dipped the toiling oar,
          The waves danced round us as before,
          As lightly, though of altered hue,
          'Mid recent coolness, such as falls
          At noontide from umbrageous walls
          That screen the morning dew.

          No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud
          Cast far or near a murky shroud;                            20
          The sky an azure field displayed;
          'Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed,
          Of all its sparkling rays disarmed,
          And as in slumber laid,--

          Or something night and day between,
          Like moonshine--but the hue was green;
          Still moonshine, without shadow, spread
          On jutting rock, and curved shore,
          Where gazed the peasant from his door
          And on the mountain's head.                                 30

          It tinged the Julian steeps--it lay,
          Lugano! on thy ample bay;
          The solemnizing veil was drawn
          O'er villas, terraces, and towers;
          To Albogasio's olive bowers,
          Porlezza's verdant lawn.

          But Fancy with the speed of fire
          Hath passed to Milan's loftiest spire,
          And there alights 'mid that aerial host
          Of Figures human and divine,                                40
          White as the snows of Apennine
          Indurated by frost.

          Awe-stricken she beholds the array
          That guards the Temple night and day;
          Angels she sees--that might from heaven have flown,
          And Virgin-saints, who not in vain
          Have striven by purity to gain
          The beatific crown--

          Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings
          Each narrowing above each;--the wings,                      50
          The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips
          The starry zone of sovereign height--
          All steeped in this portentous light!
          All suffering dim eclipse!

          Thus after Man had fallen (if aught
          These perishable spheres have wrought
          May with that issue be compared)
          Throngs of celestial visages,
          Darkening like water in the breeze,
          A holy sadness shared.                                      60

          Lo! while I speak, the labouring Sun
          His glad deliverance has begun:
          The cypress waves her sombre plume
          More cheerily; and town and tower,
          The vineyard and the olive-bower,
          Their lustre re-assume!

          O Ye, who guard and grace my home
          While in far-distant lands we roam,
          What countenance hath this Day put on for you?
          While we looked round with favoured eyes,                   70
          Did sullen mists hide lake and skies
          And mountains from your view?

          Or was it given you to behold
          Like vision, pensive though not cold,
          From the smooth breast of gay Winandermere?
          Saw ye the soft yet awful veil
          Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale,
          Helvellyn's brow severe?

          I ask in vain--and know far less
          If sickness, sorrow, or distress                            80
          Have spared my Dwelling to this hour;
          Sad blindness! but ordained to prove
          Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love
          And all-controlling power.

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
XXVII. The Three Cottage Girls


                                   I

          HOW blest the Maid whose heart--yet free
          From Love's uneasy sovereignty--
          Beats with a fancy running high,
          Her simple cares to magnify;
          Whom Labour, never urged to toil,
          Hath cherished on a healthful soil;
          Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf;
          Whose heaviest sin it is to look
          Askance upon her pretty Self
          Reflected in some crystal brook;
          Whom grief hath spared--who sheds no tear
          But in sweet pity; and can hear
          Another's praise from envy clear.

                                   II

          Such (but O lavish Nature! why
          That dark unfathomable eye,
          Where lurks a Spirit that replies
          To stillest mood of softest skies,
          Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown,
          Another's first, and then her own?)
          Such, haply, yon ITALIAN Maid,
          Our Lady's laggard Votaress,
          Halting beneath the chestnut shade
          To accomplish there her loveliness:
          Nice aid maternal fingers lend;
          A Sister serves with slacker hand;
          Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band.

                                   III

          How blest (if truth may entertain
          Coy fancy with a bolder strain)
          The HELVETIAN Girl--who daily braves,
          In her light skiff, the tossing waves,
          And quits the bosom of the deep
          Only to climb the rugged steep!
          --Say whence that modulated shout!
          From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng?
          Or does the greeting to a rout
          Of giddy Bacchanals belong?
          Jubilant outcry! rock and glade
          Resounded--but the voice obeyed
          The breath of an Helvetian Maid.

                                   IV

          Her beauty dazzles the thick wood;
          Her courage animates the flood;
          Her steps the elastic greensward meets
          Returning unreluctant sweets;
          The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice
          Aloud, saluted by her voice!
          Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace,
          Be as thou art--for through thy veins
          The blood of Heroes runs its race!
          And nobly wilt thou brook the chains
          That, for the virtuous, Life prepares;
          The fetters which the Matron wears;
          The patriot Mother's weight of anxious cares!

                                   V

          "Sweet HIGHLAND Girl! a very shower
          Of beauty was thy earthly dower,"
          When thou didst flit before mine eyes,
          Gay Vision under sullen skies,
          While Hope and Love around thee played,
          Near the rough falls of Inversneyd!
          Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen
          No breach of promise in the fruit?
          Was joy, in following joy, as keen
          As grief can be in grief's pursuit?
          When youth had flown did hope still bless
          Thy goings--or the cheerfulness
          Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?

                                   VI

          But from our course why turn--to tread
          A way with shadows overspread;
          Where what we gladliest would believe
          Is feared as what may most deceive?
          Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned
          But heath-bells from thy native ground,
          Time cannot thin thy flowing hair,
          Nor take one ray of light from Thee;
          For in my Fancy thou dost share
          The gift of immortality;
          And there shall bloom, with Thee allied,
          The Votaress by Lugano's side;
          And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep descried!