To AH! little thought she, when, with wild delight, That in her veins a secret horror slept, That her light footsteps should be heard no more, Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew The kindred forms her closing eye required. There didst thou stand-there, with the smile she knew. She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired. *On the death of her sister. And now to thee she comes; still, still the same To thee, how changed, comes as she ever came; Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears, WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round, He stirs yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise; Till thro' the shuttered pane the morning streams, And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies. WRITTEN AT MEILLERIE, SEPTEMBER 30, 1814. THESE grey majestic cliffs that tower to Heaven, These glimmering glades and open chesnut-groves, That echo to the heifer's wandering bell, Or wood-man's axe, or steers-man's song beneath, Or shout of goatherd-boy above them all, As now thy Chartreuse and thy bowers, Ripaille; Or Chillon's dungeon-floors beneath the wave, Channelled and worn by pacing to and fro; And say, half-dreaming, "Here St. Preux has been!" Yet there is, Within an eagle's flight, a nobler scene, Thy lake, Lucerne, shut in among the mountains, Mountains that flank its waves 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 God-like men, men in a barbarous age |