 | Lyrical Poems |  |
174
IN HIGH SAVOY
Nature's fair, fruitless, aimless world
Men take and mould at will:
Scoop havens from the wasteful sea;
Tame heaths to green fertility,
And grind their roadway through the hill.
Men take and mould at will:
Scoop havens from the wasteful sea;
Tame heaths to green fertility,
And grind their roadway through the hill.
Another aspect now she dons,
Changed by the hands of men:—
What harvest plains of golden hope!
What vineyards on the amber slope!
What lurid forge-lights in the glen!
Changed by the hands of men:—
What harvest plains of golden hope!
What vineyards on the amber slope!
What lurid forge-lights in the glen!
Yet still some relics she reserves
Of what was all her own:—
Keeps the wild surface of the moor,
Or, where the glacier-torrents roar,
Reigns o'er gray piles of wrinkled stone.
Of what was all her own:—
Keeps the wild surface of the moor,
Or, where the glacier-torrents roar,
Reigns o'er gray piles of wrinkled stone.
175
And though man's daily strengthening sway
Contracts her precinct fair,
Yet round smooth sweeps of vine-set land
Her vaporous ranks of summit stand
As ghosts in morning's silent air:—
Contracts her precinct fair,
Yet round smooth sweeps of vine-set land
Her vaporous ranks of summit stand
As ghosts in morning's silent air:—
Or on vast slopes, unplough'd, untrod,
She vindicates her right;
Green billows of primaeval copse,
Tossing a myriad spiry tops
'Neath the full zenith-flood of light:—
She vindicates her right;
Green billows of primaeval copse,
Tossing a myriad spiry tops
'Neath the full zenith-flood of light:—
Or where,—whilst o'er Rhone's azure lake
Heaven's azure stainless lies,—
From the White Mount the white clouds strike
As if volcano-born, or like
The smoke of some great sacrifice.
Heaven's azure stainless lies,—
From the White Mount the white clouds strike
As if volcano-born, or like
The smoke of some great sacrifice.
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