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ITALY.

THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

Day glimmered in the east, and the white Moon
Hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky,
Yet visible, when on my way I went,
Glad to be gone; a pilgrim from the North,
Now more and more attracted as I drew
Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan
Had from his window leant, drowsy, half-clad,
To snuff the morn, or the caged lark poured forth,
From his green sod upspringing as to heaven
(His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song
Old in the days of HOMER, and his wings
With transport quivering), on my way I went,
Thy gates, GENEVA, swinging heavily,
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut;
As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,
Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee,
Such virtue dwells in those small syllables,
Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street,
His birth-place, when, but one short step too late,
In his despair, as though the die were cast,

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He flung him down to weep, and wept till dawn; Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world.

'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it.? Yet at a city-gate, from time to time, Much may be learnt; nor, London, least at thine, Thy hive the busiest, greatest of them all, Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by, And note who passes. Here comes one, a youth, Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power, A CHATTERTON — in thought admired, caressed, And crowned like PETRARCH in the Capitol ; Ere long to die, to fall by his own hand, And fester with the vilest. Here come two, Less feverish, less exalted soon to part, A GARRICK and a Johnson; Wealth and Fame Awaiting one, even at the gate; Neglect And Want the other. But what multitudes, Urged by the love of change, and, like myself, Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare, Press on

though but a rill entering the sea, Entering and lost! Our task would never end.

Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze Ruffling the LEMAN Lake. Wave after wave, If such they might be called, dashed as in sport, Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach Making wild music, and far westward caught The sunbeam --- where, alone and as entranced, Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff Lay with his circular and dotted line On the bright waters. When the heart of man Is light with hope, all things are sure to please ; And soon a passage-boat swept gayly by,

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Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers,
And many a chanticleer and partlet caged
For VEVEY's market-place

- a motley group
Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 't was gone.
The shifting sail flapped idly to and fro,
Then bore them off. I am not one of those
So dead to all things in this visible world,
So wondrously profound, as to move on
In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old 3
(His name is justly in the Calendar)
Who through the day pursued this pleasant path
That winds beside the mirror of all beauty,
And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sate,
Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was.
They marvelled, as they might; and so must all,
Seeing what now I saw: for now ’t was day,
And the bright sun was in the firmament,
A thousand shadows of a thousand hues
Checkering the clear expanse. A while his orb
Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, MONT BLANC,
Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories,
That change their shapes forever as in sport;
Then travelled onward and went down behind
The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up
The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe
Borne homeward through the forest in his hand
And, on the edge of some o’erhanging cliff,
That dungeon-fortress never to be named,
Where, like a lion taken in the toils,
Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit.
Little did he, who sent him there to die,
Think, when he gave the word, that he himself,

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Great as he was, the greatest among men,
Should in like manner be so soon conveyed
Athwart the deep, and to a rock so small
Amid the countless multitude of waves,
That ships have gone and sought it, and returned,
Saying it was not !

MEILLERIE.

THESE gray majestic cliffs that tower to heaven,
These glimmering glades and open chestnut groves,
That echo to the heifer's wandering bell,
Or woodman's axe, or steers-man's song beneath,
As on he urges his fir-laden bark,
Or shout of goatherd boy above them all,
Who loves not? And who blesses not the light,
When through some loop-hole he surveys the lake
Blue as a sapphire-stone, and richly set
With chateaux, villages, and village-spires,
Orchards and vineyards, alps and alpine snows ?
Here would I dwell ; nor visit, but in thought,
FERNEY far south, silent and empty now
As now thy once luxurious bowers, RIPAILLE;
VEVEY, so long an exiled patriot’s 8 home;
Or CIIILLON’s dungeon-floors beneath the wave,
Channelled and worn by pacing to and fro;
LAUSANNE, where GIBBON in his sheltered walk
Nightly called up the shade of ancient ROME;9
Or COPPET, and that dark untrodden grove 10
Sacred to Virtue, and a daughter's tears!
Here would I dwell, forgetting and forgot;

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For I can say,

And oft methinks (of such strange potency
The spells that Genius scatters where he will)
Oft should I wander forth like one in search,
And say, half-dreaming, "Here ST. PREUX has stood !"
Then turn and gaze on CLARENS.

Yet there is,
Within an eagle's flight and less, a scene
Still nobler if not fairer (once again
Would I behold it ere these eyes are closed,

"I also have been there !”)
That sacred lake withdrawn among the hills,
Its depth of waters flanked as with a wall
Built by the giant-race before the flood;
Where not a cross or chapel but inspires
Holy delight, lifting our thoughts to God
From godlike men,

men in a barbarous age
That dared assert their birthright, and displayed
Deeds half-divine, returning good for ill;
That in the desert sowed the seeds of life,
Framing a band of small republics there,
Which still exist, the envy of the world !
Who would not land in each, and tread the ground;
Land where TELL leaped ashore; and climb to drink
Of the three hallowed fountains ? He that does
Comes back the better; and relates at home
That he was met and greeted by a race
Such as he read of in his boyish days;
Such as MILTIADES at Marathon
Led, when he chased the Persians to their ships.

There, while the well-known boat is heaving in, Piled with rude merchandise, or launching forth, Thronged with wild cattle for Italian fairs,

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