The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no more, If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild" Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: Say why VESPASIAN loved his Sabine farm;" Why great NAVARRE, when France and freedom bled, P Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. When DIOCLETIAN's self-corrected mind The imperial fasces of a world resigned, Say why we trace the labours of his spade, In calm Salona's philosophic shade. Say, when contentious CHARLES renounced a throne," To muse with monks unlettered and unknown, What from his soul the parting tribute drew? What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu? The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast Undamped by time, the generous Instinct glows Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows; Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, The social tribes its choicest influence hail :- Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale; The track that shunned his sad, inquiring eye; And win each wavering purpose to relent, With warmth so mild, so gently violent, That his charmed hand the careless rein resigned, And doubts and terrors vanished from his mind. Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm; Yes, tho' the porter spurn him from the door, With that mute eloquence which passes speech.And see, the master but returns to die! Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly? The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of earth, The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth, These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred grave, Will firm Fidelity exult to brave. Led by what chart, transports the timid dove The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love? Say, thro' the clouds what compass points her flight? Monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight. Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, Eclipse her native shades, her native skies: 'Tis vain! thro' Ether's pathless wilds she goes, And lights at last where all her cares repose. Sweet bird! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest,* And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. When, with the silent energy of grief, With looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief, Want with her babes round generous Valour clung, To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 'Twas thine to animate her closing eye; Alas! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, Crushed by her meagre hand, when welcomed from the sky. Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn," Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, And many a stream allures her to its source. 'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? Of varied scents, that charmed her as she flew? Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. |