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remplaçant la farouche inquisition ; j'y vois, un jour de

Note 87, page 34, col. 1. fète, Péruviens, Mexicains, Américains libres, François,

-the slayer slain. s'embrassant comme des frères, et bénissant le régne de Cortes, Pizarro.- . Almost all,, says Las Casas, la liberté, qui doit amener partout une harmonie uni

« have perished. The innocent blood, which they had verselle.--Mais les mines, les esclaves, que deviendront- shed, cried aloud for vengeance; the sighs, the tears of ils ? Les mines se fermeront, les esclaves seront les frères so many victims went up before God.» de leurs maitres. — Beissot.

Note 88, page 34, col. 1. There is a prophetic stanza, written a century ago by

'Mid gems and gold unenvied and unblest. Bp. Berkeley, which I must quote, though I shall suffer

L'Espagne a fait comme ce roi insensé qui demanda by the comparison.

que tout ce qu'il toucheroit se convertit en or, et qui Westward the course of empire takes its way.

fut obligé de revenir aux dieux pour les prier de finir sa The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day.

Note 89, pa ge 34, col. 2.
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

Wbere on his altar-tomb, etc.

An interpolation.
Note 86, page 34, col. 1.

Note go, page 34, col. 2.
The spoiler spoil'd of all.

Though in the western world His grave. Cortes. • A peine put-il obtenir audience de Charles- An anachronism. The body of Columbus was not Quint; un jour il fendit la presse qui entourait la coche yet removed from Seville. de l'empereur, et monta sur l'étrier de la portière. It is almost unnecessary to point out another, in Charles demanda quel étoit cet homme: 'C'est,' répondit the Ninth Canto. The telescope was not then in use; Cortez, ‘celui qui vous a donné plus d'états que vos though described long before with great accuracy by pères ne vous ont laissé de villes.'--VOLTAIRE.

Roger Bacon.



With folded arms and listless look to snuff
The morning air, or the caged sky-lark sung,

From his green sod upspringing—but in vain, A Few copies of this Poem were printed off in the His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song Autumn of the Year before last, while the Author was Old in the days of llomer, and his wings abroad. It is now corrected, and republished with some with transport quivering, on my way I went, additions.

Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily, Whatever may be its success, it has led him in many | Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut; an after-dream through a beautiful Country; and may As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,' (1) not perhaps be uninteresting to those who have learnt | Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee to live in Past Times as well as Present, and whose Inscribed to consecrate (such virtue dwells minds are familiar with the Events and the People that in those small syllables) the narrow street, have rendered Italy so illustrious,

His birth-place-when, but one short step too late, The stories, taken from the old Chroniclers, are given He sate him down and wept—wept till the morning ;(2) without exaggeration; and are, he believes, as true to Then rose to go-a wanderer through the world. the original text as any of the Plays that may be said "T is not a tale that every hour brings with it. to form our popular history.

Yet at a City-gate, from time to time,
May ist, 1823.

Much might be learnt; and most of all at thine,
London-thy bive the busiest, greatest, still

Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by,

And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youtlı,
Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power,

A Chatterton—in thought admired, caress'd,

And crown'd like Petrarch in the Capitol ;

Ere long to die--lo fall by his own hand,

And fester with the vilest. Here come two,
Dar glimmer'd in the east, and the white Moon

Less feverish, less exalted-soon to part, Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky,

A Garrick and a Johnson ; Wealth and Fame Yet visible, when on my way I went,

Awaiting one-even at the gate, Neglect Glad to be gone-a pilgrim from the north,

And Want the other. But what multitudes,
Now more and more attracted as I drew

Urged by the love of change, and, like myself,
Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan,
Browsy, half-clad, had from his window leant

I Rousseau,

Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare,
Press on-though but a rill entering the Sea,
Entering and lost! Our task would never end.

A stir unusual and accompanied
With many a tuning of rude instruments,
And many a laugh that argued coming pleasure,
Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite,
And nuptial feast attiring--there I slept,
And in my dreams wander'd once more, well-pleased.
But now a charm was on the rocks, and woods,
And waters; for, methought, I was with those
I had at morn, at even, wish'd for there.



Day glimmer'd and I went, a gentle breeze
Ruftling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave,
If such they might be call’d, dash'd as in sport,

anger, with the pebbles on the beach
Making wild music, and far westward caught
The sun-beam-where, alone and as entranced,
Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff
Lay with his circular and dotted line,
Fishing in silence. When the heart is light
With hope, all pleases, nothing comes amiss;
And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by,
Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers,
And many a chanticleer and partlet caged
For Vevay's market-place-a motley group
Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 't was gone.
The shifting sail tlapp'd idly for an instant,
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, (4)
And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sate,
Discoursing of the lake, ask'd where it was.
They marvell’d, as they might; and so must all,
Secing what now I saw; for now 't was day,
And the bright Sun was in the firmament,
A thousand shadows of a thousand hues
Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb
lung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc,
Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories,
That change their shapes for ever as in sport;
Then travelld 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, in some deep and melancholy glen,
That dungeon-fortress never to be named,
Where, like a lion taken in the toils,
Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit.
Ah, little did He think, who sent him there,
That he himself, then greatest among men,
Should in like manner be so soon convey'd
Across the ocean-to a rock so small
Amid the countless multitude of waves,
That ships have gone and sought it, and return'd,
Saying it was not!

Still along the shore, Among the trees I went for many a mile, Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-ncts, Singing some national song by the way-side. But now 'I was dusk, and journeying by the Rhone, That there came down, a torrent from the Alps, I enter'd where a key unlocks a kingdom,' The mountains closing, and the road, the river Filling the narrow pass. There, till a ray Glanced through my lattice, and the honschold-stir Warn'd me to rise, to rise and to depart,

Nigut was again descending, when


mule, That all day long had climb'd among the clouds, Higher and higher still, as by a stair Let down froin Heaven itself, transporting me, Stopp'd, to the joy of both, at that low door So near the summit of the Great St Bernard; That door which ever on its hinges moved To them that knock'd, and nightly sends abroad Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch, Two dogs of grave

demcanour welcomed me, (5) All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb; And a lay-brother of the Hospital, Who, as wc toil'd below, had heard by fits The distant echoes gaining on his ear, Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand, While I alighted.

Long could I have stood, With a religious awe contemplating That House, the highest in the Ancient World, And placed there for the noblest purposes. "T was a rude pile of simplest masonry, Withi narrow windows and vast buttresses, Built to endure the shocks of Time and Chance; Yet showing many a rent, as well it might, Warr'd on for ever by the elements, And in an evil day, nor long ago, By violent men-when on the mountain-top The French and Austrian banners met in conflict.

On the same rock beside it stood the church, Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity; The vesper-bell, for 't was the vesper-hour, Duly proclaiming through the wilderness,

All ye who hear, whatever be your work, Stop for an instant-move your lips in prayer!. And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale, If dale it might be call'd, so near to Ileaven, A little lake, where never fish leap'd up, Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow; A star, the only one in that small sky, On its dead surface gliminering. 'T was a scene Resembling nothing I had left behind, As though all worldly ties were now dissolved ;And to incline the mind still inore to thoughi, To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore Under a beetling ciiff stood half in shadow A lonely chapel destined for the dead, For such as, having wander'd from their way, Had perislied miserably. Side by side, Within they lie, a mournful company All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them; Their features full of life, yet motionless In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change,



St Maurice.

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Though the barr'd windows, barr'd against the wolf, Which, where it comes, makes Summer; and in thought,
Are always open!

Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath
But the Bise blew cold ;(6)

Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates
And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal,

Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe

Those from the South ascending, every step
I sate among the holy brotherhood
At their long board. The fare indeed was such

As though it were their last-and instantly
As is prescribed on days of abstinence,

Restored, renew'd, advancing as with

Rut might have pleased a nicer taste than mine; Soon as they see, turning a lofty crag,
And through the floor came up, an ancient matron That plain, that modest structure, promising
Serving unseen below; while from the roof

Bread to the hungry, (9) to the weary rest. (The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir,)

A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling
Its partial light on Apostolic heads,

And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet
Had changed not. Some were almost in the prime;

My mule refresh'd-and, let the truth be told,
Nor was a brow o'ercast, Seen as I saw them,

He was not of that vile, that scurvy race, Ranged round their ample hearth-stone in an hour

From sire to son lovers of controversy, Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile,

But patient, diligent, and sure of foot, As children; answering, and at once, to all

Shunning the loose stone on the precipice, The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth;

Sporting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch, Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk

Examining the wet and spungy moss, Music; and gathering news from them that came, And on his haunches sitting to slide down As of some other world. But when the storm

The stecp, the smooth--my mule refresh'd, his bells Rose, and the snow roll’d on in ocean-billows,

Gingled once more, the signal to depart, When on liis face the experienced traveller fell,

And we set out in the grey light of dawn,
Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands,

Descending rapidly-by waterfalls
Then all was changed; and, sallying with their pack Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice
Into that blank of nature, they became

That in their long career had stopt mid-way.
Unearthly beings. Anselm, higher up,

At length, uncheck'd, unbidden, he stood still; Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long,

And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide, And now, as guided by a voice from heaven

Lowering his voice, address'd me: * Through this Chasm Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence

On and say nothing-for a word, a breathi, Whose can it be, but his who never err'd?

Stirring the air, may loosen and bring down Let us to work! there is no time to lose!

A winter's snow-enough to overwhelm But who descends Mont Velan? 'Tis La Croix.

The horse and foot that, night and day, defiled Away, away! if not, alas, too late.

Along this path to conquer at Marengo. Homeward he drags an old man and a boy,

Well I remember how I met them here, Faltering and falling, and but half awaken'd,

As the light died


and how Napoleon, Asking to sleep again.. Such their discourse.

Wrapt in his cloak-I could not be deceived

Rein'd in his horse, and asked me, as I pass’d, Oft has a venerable roof received me;

How far 't was to St Reini. Where the rock St Bruno's once' (7) — where, when the winds were Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away, hush'd,

Narrows almost to nothing at its base, Nor from the cataract the voice came up,

"T was there; and down along the brink he led You might have heard the mole ork underground, To Victory!-Dessaix, who turn'd the scale, (10) So great the stillness of that place; none seen,

Leaving his life-blood in that famous field Save when from rock to rock a hermit cross'd

(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot By some rude bridge-or one at midnight tolld In the blue haze), sleeps, as you saw at dawn, To matins, and white habits, issuing forth,

Just as you enter'd, in the Hospital-churchı.. Glided along those aisles interminable,

So saying, for awhile he held his peace, All, all obscrvant of the sacred law

Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy; Of Silence. Nor is that sequester'd spot,

But soon, the danger pass’d, launchi'd forth again. Once called a Sweet Waters," now · The Shady Vale,» 2

To me unknown; that house so rich of old,
So courteous,(8) and by two, that pass'd that way,

Amply requited with iminortal verse,
The Poet's payment.

JORasse was in his three-and-twentieth year;
But, among them all,

Graceful and active as a stay just roused;
None can with this compare, the dangerous seat

Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech, Of generous, active Virtue. What though Frost

Yet seldom seen to smile.

lle had grown up Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow

Among the Hunters of the Higher Alps;
Thaw not, but gather, there is that within,

Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness,
Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies,

Said to arise by those who dwell below,
1 The Grande Chartreuse
1 Vallombrosa, formerly called Acqua Bella.

From frequent dealings with the Mountain-Spirits. 3 Ariosto and Nilton.

But other ways luad taught him better things,

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All in their best attire. Thiere first he saw
Mis Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke,
With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.


And now he number'd, marching by my side,
The Savans, Princes, who with him liad cross'd
The frozen tract, with him familiarly
Through the rough day and rougher night conversed

many a chalèt round the Peak of Terror,
Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau,
And Her, whose throne is inaccessible,
Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin-majesty,
Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche
Roll'd its long thunder; and a sudden crash,
Sharp and metallic, to the startled car
Told that far-down a continent of Ice
Had burst in twain. But he had now begun;
And with what transport he recall'd the hour
When to deserve, to win his blooming bride,
Madelaine of Annecy, lo his feet he bound
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod
The Upper realms of Frost; then, by a cord
Let half-way down, enter'd a Grot star-bright,
And gather'd from above, below, around, (11)
The pointed crystals!

Once, nor long before (12)
(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet,
And with an eloquence that Nature gives
To all her children--breaking off by starts
Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule
Drew his displeasure), once, nor long before,
Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg,
lle slipp'd, he fell; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,
Went to the Under-world! Long-while he lay
Upon his rugged bed—then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever!
For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw
Innumerable branches of a Cavern,
Winding beneath that solid Crust of Ice ;
With here and there a rent that show'd the stars!
What then, alas, was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers,
Strewn with the bones of miserable men,
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round;
When hark, the noise as of some mighty River
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon return'd, and, fearless from despair,
Dash'd down the dismal Channel; and all day,
If day could be where utter darkness was,
Travella incessantly, the craggy roof
Just over-lıcad, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor decp, yet with a giant's strength
Lashing bim on. At last the water slept
In a dead lakc-at the third step he took,
Unfathomable-and the roof, that long
Had threaten'd, suddenly descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
Ilis journey ended; when a ray divine
Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her
Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin,
He plunged, he swam-and in an instant rose,
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through
A smiling valley, full of cottages,
Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day)

The tale was long, but coming to a close, When his dark cyes flashi'd fire, and, stopping short, lle listen'd and look'd up. I look'd up too ; And twice there came a hiss that through me thrill'd! T was hcard no more. À Chamois on the cliff Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, And all were gone.

But now the thread was broken;
Love and its joys had vanish'd from his mind;
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes,
When with his friend, Hubert of Bion nay,
(Ois ancient carbine from his shoulder slung,
lis axe to hew a stair-case in the ice)
He track'd their footsteps. By a cloud surprised,
Upon a crag among the precipices,
Where the next step had hurld them fifty fathoms,
Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms,
All the long night under a freezing sky,
Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling.
Oh, 't was a sport he loved dearer than life,
And only would with life itself relinquish!

My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds.
As for myself, he cried, and he held forth
Dis wallet in his hand, - this do I call
My winding-sheet-for I shall have no other! -

And lie spoke truth. Within a little month He lay among these awful solitudes, ('T was on a glacier-half-way up to leaven) Taking his final rest. Long did his wife, Suckling her babe, her only one, look out The way he went at parting, but he came not! Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep (Such their belief) he should appear before her, Frozen and ghastly pale, or crushi'd and bleeding, To tell her where he lay, and supplicate For the last rite! At length the dismal news Came to her cars, and to her eyes his corse.



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Now the grey granite, starting through the snow,
Discover'd many a variegated moss
That to the pilgrim resting on lois staff
Shadows out capes and islands; and ere Jong
Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live
In lower regions, and delighted drink
The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues,
With their diminutive leaves cover'd the ground.
’T was then, that, turning by an ancient archi,
Shiver'd in two, yet most majestical
With its long level branches, we observed
A human figure sitting on a stone
Far down by the way-side-just where the rock
Is riven asunder, and the Evil One
llas bridged the gulph, a wondrous monument 113)

The Schrekhorn.

> The Jung-fran.

I Lichen Geographicus.

Built in one night, from which the flood bencath,
Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard,
And seen as motionless!

Nearer we drew,
And ’ı was a woman young and delicate,
Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot,
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand,
In deepest thought. Young as she was, she wore
The matron-cap; and from her shape we judged,
As well we might, that it would not be long
Ere she became a mother. Pale she look'd,
Yet cheerful; though, methought, once, if not twice,
She wiped away a tear that would be coming:
And in those moments her small hat of straw,
Worn on one side, and garnislı'd with a riband
Glittering with gold, but ill conceal'd a face
Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up
On our approach, she journey'd slowly on;
And my companion, long before we met,
knew, and ran down to greet her.

She was born
(Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears)
In Val d'Aosta ; and an Alpine stream,
Leaping from
crag crag

in its short course
To join the Dora, turn'd her father's mill.
There did she blossom till a Valaisan,
A townsman of Martigny, won her heart,
Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out,
Unwilling to resign her; and at length,
When the third summer came, they stole a match
And fled. The act was sudden; and when far
Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then
She pictured to herself that aged face
Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger;
And, when at last she heard his hour was near,
Went forth unseen, and, burden'd as she was,
Cross'd the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness,
And hold him to her heart before he died.
Her task was done. She had fulfilla her wish,
And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping.
A frame like hers had suffer'd; but her love
Was strong within her; and right on she went,
Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her!
And should I once again, as once I may,
Visit Martigny, I will not forget
Thy hospitable roof, Marguerite de Tours;
Thy sign the silver swan.' Heaven prosper Thee!

The level plain I travell’d silently,
Nearing them more and more, day after day,
My wandering thoughts my only company,
And they before me still, oft as I look d,
A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er me,
A wonder as at things I had not heard of!
Oft as I look'd, I felt as though it were
For the first time!

Great was the tumult there,
Deafering the din, when in barbaric pomp
The Carthaginian on his march to Rome
Entered their fastnesses. Trampling the snows,
The war-horse rear'd; and the tower'd elephant
Upturn'd his trunk into the murky sky,
Then tumbled headlong, swallow'd up and lost,
He and his rider.

Now the scene is changed;
And o'er Mont Cenis, o'er the Simplon winds
A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone
Flung about carelessly, it shines afar,
Catching the


many a broken link, In many a lurn and traverse as it glides; And oft above and oft below

Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up,
As though it were another, not the same,
Leading along he knows not whence or whither.
Yet through its fairy-course, go where it will,
The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock
Opens and lets it in; and on it runs,
Winning its easy way from clime to clime
Through glens lock'd up before.

Not such my path!
Minc but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, delight (14)
In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on
Till fascination comes and the brain turns!
Mine, though I judge but from my ague-fits
Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell, (15)
The same as Hannibal's.

But now 't is past,
That turbulent Chaos; and the promised land

feet in all its loveliness!
To him who starts up from a terrible dream,
And lo, the sun is shining, and the lark
Singing aloud for joy, to him is not
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel
At the first glimpses of fair Italy.


Lies at my


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Wuo first beholds those everlasting clouds,
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,
Still where they were, steadfast, immovable;
Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain
Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west,
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
As to belong rather to Heaven than Earth-
But instantly receives into his soul
A sense, a feeling that he loses not,
A something that informs him 't is a moment
Whence he may date henceforward and for ever?

I love to sail along the Larian Lake
Under the shore-though not to visit Pliny,
To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk,
Or fishing, as he might be, from his window :
And, to deal plainly, (may his Shade forgive me!)
Could I recall the ages past, and play
The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve
My leisure for Catullus on his Lake,
Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm
A little further on the way to Mantua.
But such things cannot be. So I sit still,
And let the boatman shift his little sail,
flis sail so forked and so swallow-like,
Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning air
Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round
A silvery gleam : and now the purple mists

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