Sonnets in Switzerland and Italy :: :: University of Virginia Library

You give me much, I little, but I know
That for poor deed you take the generous will,
And so I send from off this ‘Blessèd Hill’
The sweetest flowers in Switzerland that grow.
Take them, and let them tell you what I owe,—
For you it was who taught mine eyes to thrill
At sight of ‘gentian’ glory, and to fill
My soul with wonders of the Alpine snow.

Still do these lowly stars of azure blue
Unto that star in Heaven, the great Sun, turn,
And in his joy their secret selves unfold;
And still your fond disciples turn to you,
Open their hearts that for your sunshine yearn,
And seek the smile they learned to love of old.

SONNET PREFATORY

TO JOHN RUSKIN

February 8th, 1899

There was no snow on Coniston Old Man,
Nor couched the Langdale Lions grizzled-gray,
It seemed the winter had not come that way,
And endless spring the golden age began.
And you, for whom this earth's allotted span,
The four-score summers of our mortal day,
Had dawned—you heard at Brantwood voices say,
‘Strong run your founts of thought as first they ran.’

O joyful healer of dull labour's hours!
O brave revealer of dark mammon's sin!
O sure, swift feeler for our people's woe!
We bring the laurel chaplet and the flowers,
Such crown as angel ministers may win,
To utter something of the debt we owe.

SWITZERLAND

Land of undying Winter, endless Spring,
—For twice behind the scythe your valleys shine;
Land of the broad-leaved chestnut and the pine,
Where all the flowers their gayest garlands fling
Before the feet of Summer; where bells ring
An echo to the music of the kine;
Land doubly flowing with milk and mellow wine,
—Milk of pure kindness, wine of welcoming—
To you I come, worn out with petty care,
Come, for the cuckoo called me; let blue floods
And your white-blossoming valleys close me round,
And give me leave with simple faith to share
The solace of your mountain solitudes,
And walk with Freedom on her native ground.

SWITZERLAND ONCE MORE

When in the May, queen-month of all the year,
From off the heights I hear the herdsman cry,
And up from lake or down from bluest sky,
The trembling cow-bell music fills mine ear,
I feel again inevitable cheer;
Sweet thoughts of Alpine joys that cannot die
Come borne on wings of hospitality,
From some brown-hooded mountain chalet near.

High up above the beechwood and the pine,
Faint clouds that fade not, move not, greet my gaze,
—The Alpine orchard's wealth of fragrant snow—
Then all the long years' sorrow and the haze
Of labour lifts, and, Switzerland, I know
What happiness, what health of heart is thine.

IN A PINEWOOD

AT THE GÜTSCH, LUCERNE

Friend of the sorrowful, not a heart is aching
But, charmed by this your happy cloistral shade,
Would find his grief before your music fade,
And feel his sadness of your joy partaking;
For here, though scarce a sunbeam through is breaking,
The trees are glad with such sweet serenade,
Such humming melodies, as would persuade
All things that are forlorn to merry-making.

Led by the woodland's sympathetic will
The wanderer here in darkest mood may stray,
Till, sudden pausing where the robin sings,
He feels the fragrant roof above him rings
With message that the sun is shining still,
And down dim aisles his sorrow slips away.

THE BELL FOR EARLY MASS

FROM THE JESUIT CHURCH OF ST. JOSEPH, LUCERNE

The Reuss ran hushed and silent beneath the morn,
The city lay in slumber, and there fell
Forth from St. Joseph's tower an iron knell,
And the wall-echoes from their rest were drawn;
Far up the lake, far o'er the mountain lawn
The clangour of that iron-mouthèd bell
Went circling. Shepherds on far heights could tell
That prayer would soon on trembling wings be borne;

And much they blessed that messenger of good—
Only an iron stroke and quivering air,
But from the bell full Sabbath peace was given,
Lay on the waters, entered to the wood,
Made strong weak hearts and comforted despair,
And thrilled the earth with promises of Heaven.

THE FOUNTAIN IN THE WINE-MARKET, LUCERNE

They rest upon their swords, and lean, and peer
Behind their vizors at the passers-by,
In the dark fountain see the changing sky,
Themselves unchanged, reflected year by year;
So through four centuries, with a watch austere
Above the waters never fouled nor dry,
These knights have kept unbroken fealty,
Though blade be rusted, bruised be helm and spear.

Ah! would to heaven, to guard each city's store
Of life, while still the white cross shone above,
With constant ward such knightly purpose stood!
Then, from the common fount of brotherhood,
Yea, even from forth the Dragon's mouth, should pour
Perennial streams of purity and love!

DREAMS AND WORK

HÔTEL DES BALANCES, LUCERNE

How sweet at eve to dream the time away
Above red chestnut blossom floating down,
Where the tall lantern lifts its cap of brown
Against the Rigi's ridges rosy-grey!
At noon to watch the silver shoals at play
In liquid emerald, dancing sunlight thrown
High on the eaves of this quaint burgher town,
Between the bridges where men pass and pray.

Blest is the stream that lulls us to repose
When dew-fall brings the silence—but more blest
To rouse us unto vigour at the morn,
When, like a giant stronger for his rest
And fresh for any labour to be borne,
The Reuss with joy toward the mill-wheel goes.

LUCERNE AGAIN

Again we see the walls and ancient towers,
The brown-capped water-fort, the Rathhaus-hall,
The emerald river flooding to its fall
Between the bridges; or, knee-deep in flowers,
Where happy swallows slip through drifting showers
Of snowy blossom, hear the loud bells call
To frequent prayer, whilst wonderful o'er all
Pilatus weaves his cloud with magic powers.

In sombre kirtles gay with steel and gold,
The village people steer the selfsame boats
To the same market, with the same grave air,
Whilst near, the same dark swan-flotilla floats:
One thing alone no changelessness can share,
The heart that feels no longer as of old.

TO THE RIVER REUSS

LUCERNE

Here at the Wäage, as I sit and dream,
The Reuss goes rustling on toward the weir,
And in its voice sweet echoes I can hear,
Of glaciers where the ice-king's treasures gleam,
Of Alpine pasture and of Alpine stream,
Of barren heights that brought the climber cheer,
Of the green levels of the magic mere,
Where white clouds swim and mountains double seem.

But most, thou garrulous river, still thy tale
Speaks of fair villages, of happy men—
Fluelen, Brunnen, Weggis—touched and passed,
Of cool about the prow, of sunny sail,
By verdurous cape and shadowy forest-glen,
That brings the wanderer home to rest at last.

THE LION OF LUCERNE

Ne'er saw I, never felt such solemn breath
Of deep compassion breathed from carven stone,
Nor knew how quiet waters could atone
For sorrow by such sending from beneath
Of heart-appealing pity. In its sheath
Of flesh the spear-shaft breaks, and with a groan
The lion's head falls low, the rocks make moan,
The hollow grove is resonant with death.

This is the meed of duty. They who die
Rather than disavow the oath they swear,
For them each year in silent woody places
Trees bend in grief—their valour fills the air,
Clear in death's silent pool we see their faces,
And on life's rock their immortality.

AT THE THREE LINDEN

LUCERNE

Up through the marvel of the blossoming pear,
By sorrel lanes and fields of picris gold
We went with joy, half fearing to behold
A scene less witching, less divinely rare
Than wonder had imagined; fresh and fair
The Lindens tossed their arms that grow not old;
We gazed, and purest emerald, Reuss was rolled
From out a lake as blue and deep as air.

Toward the towers and roofs of sunburnt brown
Sloped bowery orchards, hill to pine-clad hill
Broidered with tenderest beeches bade rejoice!
Rejoice ye, River, Mountain, Lake, and Town!
Rejoice, ye wanderers! and a blackbird's trill
Came clear to greet us with an English voice.

ENCLOSURE OF THE THREE LINDEN, LUCERNE

A PATRIOT'S PROTEST

Imprisoner of the Lindens, you do well
To guard each gable-end with lightning lance,
For if the levin-bolt with withering glance
Fall, men will say not unprovoked it fell;
For here the lover would his story tell,
Here children round the tree in May could dance,
Here hearts aflame for freedom and romance
Felt the Confederates' passion, knew its spell.

No more our babes may hear the hum of bees,
Nor old men sit within the fragrant shade,
Or smile to see the coral glumes drop down,—
An iron hand has dispossest a town,
Prates law, and builds unrighteous barricade
Between a nation and their Linden trees.

A MORNING PRAYER ON THE MARKET-BOAT

LUCERNE

They sat sun-tanned and marred with care and moil,
And sorrow sat there with them in the shade;
A little calm the world could not invade—
A little rest from weariness and toil—
These were the gifts for which they plied their coil
Of beads; and, while the younger daughter said
The morning office, low responses made,
And prayed that Mary would the tempter foil.

There while they prayed, the shepherd, muttering low,
Prayed with them, though his eyes were on the hill,
And she, who bore her fruit to market, crossed
Her breast, but thought what grapes to-day should cost;
Yet none the less their faces seemed to show
They felt the love of Heaven was round them still.

AT KASTANIENBAUM

Tired of my kind, and weary of the town,
How pleasant here to roam these orchard-bowers
When grey Pilatus bares at eve his towers,
Or wreathes the clouds of morning for his crown;
How grateful, where the mower leaves unmown
Red sorrel and the fragrant meadow-flowers,
When all her milk-white shells the cherry showers,
And the red walnut sheds her tassels down.

O happy land of blissfulness and rest!
The blackbird sings, the redstarts flash and fly,
Through clouds of blossom emerald waters shine;
A better gift than fruitfulness is thine—
Thine is the balm to soothe an aching breast
With hope of Eden's old felicity!

THE WATCH-TOWER

AT STANZSTADT

Where meadows gold with mary-buds, and brown
With beaded burnet, shine beside the mere
And half forbid the passing boat to steer
For Alpnach's waters, poplar-trees look down
Upon the harbour of an inland town,
And there, its feet in waters cool and clear,
Rises a tower that knew not any fear
When justice woke and tyrants were o'erthrown.

How shouldst thou fear, thou grey-embattled tower,
Though arrow sing and torch was hither hurled,
And all earth's forces leagued against thee came?
For love of country, with o'er-mastering power,
With love for woman, forging bolts of flame,
Could hold thy fortress still against the world.

SUNDAY MORNING

FROM THE STANZERHORN

Rose-red the Glarnisch kindled, spire on spire
The peaks of Oberland put off the night,
Pilatus gleamed, and suddenly from sight
The whole lake vanished 'neath a mist of fire;
Then from the fleecy billows flooding higher
Upstood new islands, over bay and bight
The gentler mountains flashed a tenderer light,
And every cloud became an angel choir.

The travailing earth with all its work and woes
Lay veiled beneath that vast translucent throng,
But, as up-trembling came the soft bells' chime,
A fairer Eden out of chaos rose
To sound of Sabbath joy and seraph song,
With presage of an unlaborious time.

GOING TO CHURCH AT OB-BÜRGEN

BÜRGENSTOCK

They leave the orchards, pass the wayside shrine,
The path is hard, and rest is pleasant there;
So by the stream toward the church they fare
Snow-white against a circling wall of pine.
No need for bells; the silver bells of kine
That sound to milking, serve as call for prayer;
No need for sermon; blossoms everywhere
Bid hope for fruit, the sap is in the vine;—

But as they enter to their chapel-porch,
And think of that dear life to duty vowed,
Who gave his heart that others here might pray,
They feel Christ present: as they leave the church,
Pilatus rears his head, and speaks aloud
Of One who cast a dearer Life away.

—The inscription at Ob-Bürgen Church reads as follows:— ‘To the pious and learned Town Councillor and Bailiff of the Chapel, Joseph Francis Fluher of Wyden von Obbergen, who, on the 9th of September 1798, at the first attack of the French, saved this church, on his knees, from being burned; but who, at the second attack, was shot, with his repeated intercessions unheard, and was buried above the Inn.’

DAYSPRING ON PILATUS

The star that hung o'er Titlis' silver head
Paled, and the grey Pilatus seemed to know
That soon the southern ridge of Alpine snow
Would flush and fill with shadow; saffron-red,
As if the world burned under, there was spread
A rampart round the plain; Zug caught the glow,
But still, Lucerne, thy waters lay below
As pale as ice whereon the frost is shed.

Then over Sentis like a ruby came
The great glad god that gave another dawn,
And Oberland with all her peaks was bright:
Grim Esel cast his shadow from the flame,
From a wide world the look of death was drawn,
And green once more the valleys laughed with light.

THE RIGI

There is a mountain other aeons made
For this time's use; where once the tides were whirled
Hither and thither, tender clouds are curled
To bring the rain or yield a moment's shade;
And here all summer in the pine-tree glade
Sound faery bells as from another world,
And never here the avalanche is hurled
To scare the flowers or make the woods afraid.

Here, to this mountain, come the worn and sad,
And flushed with health again the pale cheek glows,
And the weak pulse beats bravely as before;
Here a whole nation's life new vigour knows,
For freedom blooms, and every village lad
Feels his heart throb in sight of Sempach's shore.

FROM THE RIGI-KULM

AT SUNRISE

His heart was never for a patriot made
Who—gazing here, when sunrise with a wand
Smiting the silver peaks of Oberland
Flings on Pilatus Rigi's purple shade—
Could watch unmoved, to think of those whose aid
Bequeathed their country faith in Heaven's command,
Dared face to face with fearful odds to stand,
And struck for freedom with undaunted blade!

There shines the vale where Winkelried was born,
There Sempach gleams; here fatefully shot Tell,
Here at Morgarten stood the Swiss at bay,
Here by the church of ‘Kappel’ Zwingli fell;
And, as the mists rise up and float away,
The land of heroes brightens to the morn.

FROM THE STAFFEL-STOCK

RIGI

Beneath me lay the Kaltbad's welcoming halls,
The ground was crocus-starred, the gentian's hue
Filled all the grass with hyacinthine blue;
From the far Rigi's rosy mountain-walls,
Across the pines, came frequent cuckoo-calls,
And clear from yon steep-bastioned Rothenfluh
The silent air refreshingly let through
The May-tide murmur of the waterfalls.

But not dark Mythen under Sentis seen,
Nor cloud-enwreathed Pilatus grim and grey,
Held me as that Protean Bürgenstock
Which down at Vitznau like a lion lay,
And now half shadow, now half silver rock,
Basked in the sun by Uri's water green.

THE CROCUS LEGIONS

ON THE RIGI

While still the cloud hung coldly, and the May
Glad in the vales no mountain-heights had crowned,
Between the dappled patches, lo! I found
A little army, whose white-plumed array
Possessed the field, victorious from their fray
With surly winter; long beneath the ground
In patient hiding, at a sudden bound
These tiny soldierlings had won the day.

No banner lifted, and no bugle blew,
Yet down their ranks a movement seemed to run;
The white plumes nodded, each was seen to hold
Within his hand three dainty spears of gold:
Then first the cause of victory I knew,
Their legions owned no leader but the Sun!

ON A SEAT BENEATH THE DOSSENWAND

ABOVE VITZNAU

Rest, herdsman, rest! for heavy is the pail;
Rest, wanderer, rest! for heavy is the heart;
Rest, lover, rest! for bitter is the smart
Of parting from the loved one in the vale:
For here the flowering walnut scents the gale,
The blackbird here sings three times o'er his part,
And here the jocund swallows earliest dart
With news that Rigi's snow shall surely fail.

The rosy ramparts of the Dossenwand
Shut out the world; with rainbows from the rock
The silver waters fall adown its breast
With silver blossom for the Unterland,
And like a sleeping lion, Bürgenstock
Lies on the lake, the guardian lord of rest.

THE WISSEFLUH

ON THE VITZNAU-STOCK

The dark falls on us, blessed by every star,
The sun shines round us golden all the day,
Care climbs not hither, grief must ever stay
Below us in the woods, where song-birds are
Melodious ministrants; the bells from far
Bring from the depths the least faint sound to say
That man, almost too happy, still must pray.
Here, where each cloud would seem an angel's car
To wing our thoughts to Heaven. Here we sleep
Lulled by the tinkling herds, and waked at morn
By some far jodel from a sister height;
All day we hear the mountain shepherd's horn,
And when the merry cricket fails we keep
With song and dance the shepherd's festal night.

MOUNTAIN SCHOLARS

UP THE VITZNAU-STOCK

I heard the cataract bellow its command,
The sorrowing pines send whisper through the glade,
When up the mountain pathway boy and maid—
He with his satchel, she with flowers in hand—
Came, leaving far below their scholar-band.
I asked, ‘How fare you children unafraid?’
‘It is our Father's will, each morn,’ they said,
‘For vale and school we leave our mountain land.’

Dear children, it is such as you who teach:
Each day from nearer Heaven your feet can bring
An upland blessing to the lowland school;
Mystery of pine-tree music, torrent-speech,
Some words of how obedient flowers may spring
In homes where simple innocence has rule.

AT THE DEGENBALM

MORSCHACH

The brown-leaved walnut's fragrance fills the air,
The fields with wild forget-me-not are blue,
The Frohnalp's beech has donned her tenderest hue,
And Morschach's slope is white with blossoming pear;
And I, uplifted on this mountain-stair,
With Mythen's peaks and Urmi's ridge in view,
Feel how the upland breath can strength renew,
And Degenbalm's sure solace banish care.

Below my feet the restful village lies,
The church-bell sounds at morn and noon and night,
To bid men walk the way their fathers trod;
While o'er my head grey peaks of glory rise,
And other bells call cheerly from the height
To climb through praise and wonder up to God.

EVENING AT MORSCHACH

Belated herdsmen jodel from the lea,
The last tired cow-bell tinkles to the stall,
And Urmi builds himself a purple wall
With each dark rock and every feathered tree,
Clear-cut against Heaven's opal: flying free,
The bats about the dewy walnuts call,
While one bright star is shining over all,
And bids the cottage eyes be bright and see.

Then, when the waters and the hills are one,
And depth and height are lost in liquid haze,
The house-lamps twinkle, and the clock clangs ten,
Forth to the fields the chalet-jewels blaze
To tell the long day's work at length is done,
And home is sweet for Morschach's weary men.

ON THE AXENSTRASSE

Vast silent cliffs of saffron, purple-grey,
Rose up to Heaven and caught the flying cloud,
While underneath, the engine, shrieking loud,
Dived into dark and thundered on its way;
The lake, below, an emerald mirror lay;
Calm trees reflected stood, a fearless crowd—
Where Uri's rocks by primal forces bowed
Told of the passion of an earlier day.

Between the restless cloud and restful flood—
'Twixt life unpained, and life that still must wear
The impress of our earth's Titanic pain—
I, walking, felt the way for mortals good
Which told how hearts that passionate sorrow bear
With peace in sight their journey may sustain.

AT BÜRGLEN

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM TELL

Here was he nursed upon this pleasant hill,
Hence heard the voice of Schächen all year round
Filling the air with free triumphant sound—
Impassioned music for his growing will;
And whether with his bow he tried his skill,
Following the chamois on the mountain-ground,
Or shared the dalesmen's toil, his soul was bound
To free his land from hopelessness and ill.

So when the Schächen roared with melted snow,
And cast the pines like straws along the dale,
He knew the Föhn, that wrecked the forest-ground,
Grassed all the Alps, and prayed God's wind would blow,
Yea, even with wrath, so Love at last prevail,
And Hope and Life on Freedom's height should grow.

AT ARTH-GOLDAU

Still must the Rossberg our reproaches bear,
The mark upon his forehead be unhealed,
And Lowertz' lessened lake and Goldau's field
Sown thick with boulders, bid the traveller fear;
Again earth's avalanche he seems to hear,
The shuddering Rigi roars, as if it pealed
With thunder when Arth's waters backward reeled,
And the doom fell that cannot disappear.

But to the valley with that stroke of death
Came powers of life to soothe and disannul
The awful woe of villages forlorn;
The lichen's tender hand makes beautiful
The rocky tomb of those who slept beneath,
And for their dirge ten thousand pines are born.

AT THE MONUMENT OF ST. BENEDICT ABOVE EINSIEDELN

Here, Father Benedict, I too could stand
Through winter storm, through summer's quivering heat,
Clad all in white, the raven at my feet,
With books and cup and crozier in my hand,
And gaze upon the palace I had planned
For holy thought, the halls where pilgrims meet,
The brown-roofed school, the quadrangle complete
With church, byre, bakery, playground, garden-land;

But then, like Pastor Zwinglius, I should turn,
And entering to the church, I would ascend
Its pulpit, crying, ‘Brother, leave your cell,
Burn no more tapers, ring no sanctus bell;
Our God hath made of dark-faced dolls an end,
And claims your heart, wherein His lamp shall burn.’

THE STATUE OF ZWINGLIUS

ZURICH

Beneath the tower, where, sword upon his knee,
Sits the great Charles who laid the corner-stone,
Stands Zwinglius, but his soul is by the throne,
No need of sword or Bible now has he;
But those hawk eyes that, seeking light to see,
Saw God's Word opened, that deep voice, whose tone
Cheered men that climb the stairs of Heaven alone—
These knew not Death, or Death has set them free.

And here beneath his doctor's ample hood,
Stern mouth and prophet's memorable eye,
Strong foot so irresistibly set down,
Firm face, half-sweet for praise, for blame halffrown,
These pierce the heart of every passer-by,
And bid men stand for truth as Zwinglius stood.

FAREWELL TO LUCERNE

We go; we leave the linden-trees, the wall,
The landward towers, the terrible bridge of death,
The grey-green waters dancing underneath,
And that brown-hooded castle which men call
The ‘Lantern’; but our hearts are sad withal,
For never May breathed more victorious breath,
Nor wove of bloom a more bewitching wreath
With power to keep the souls of men in thrall.

We glide by poplared cape and slopes a-flower,
Pilatus casts his shadow at our feet;
And the reflected peaks of Oberland
Bow down before our passage, but the power
Of that quaint town, where old and new worlds meet
And Spring is empress, holds us by the hand.

AT STANZ

I saw the dying hero's upturned face
Who gathered all the spears into his breast,
And so made swifter onset for the rest,
Then turned the milk-white meadow-path to trace
Toward the homestead of his father's race;
I found a grange whose broad-backed gable-crest
Was brown against blue heights, whose wall was drest
With blossoming pear in plenitude of grace.

And here beneath the glorious Buochserhorn,
That breaks from cloud to pine, from pine to mead,
From mead to happy house and orchard-slope—
Here in this amphitheatre was born
The heart that realised a people's hope,
The life that dared the death of Winkelried.

ARNOLD VON WINKELRIED

AT STANZ

How could the love of fatherland so placed
Not grow to be a passion?—hither free
Sang the loud brooks, and every budding tree
In yon grange-orchard on to freedom raced
When April touched the meadows, and in haste
The blossom reddened. Here the boy could see
How Spring from Winter claimed its liberty,
How Winter still with chains the Summer chased.

And he?—his heart was filled with hope of spring:
Spring, and the summer of content to come,
With fruit of patriot good for far-off years;
And so at Sempach, when the tyrant ring
Withstood, he gathered to his breast the spears,
And fell for God, for Liberty and Home.

TO ENGELBERG

All up the road that through the forest wound
We wondered how the vale and hill would lie
That charmed an angel message from the sky,
And bade the black-robed monks their Abbey found.
Then suddenly, where Aars' tumultuous bound
Leaps bellowing under Nieder-Wald, the sky
Was closed by Harrnen, the Span-Ortten high
Sprang up, and Titlis shone with Winter crowned.

One-half the vale was shadow, one was sun,
The cattle lowed, the plain was all a-flower,
And happy dwellings dotted fell and field.
A great bell clanged, a mighty grange did run
Athwart the vale, white-walled, with one great tower,
And, Engelberg, thy wonder was revealed.

AT THE SIGN OF THE ‘ANGEL’

ENGELBERG

Who takes the passing traveller for a guest
May entertain an angel unaware,
And since on yonder rocky mountain stair
Clouds broke in angel music to attest
Here God would dwell, and here His name be blest,
Angels have entertained who hither fare,
Loosed them of sorrow, freed them of earth's care,
And soothed them with some hope of heavenly rest.

So, ‘Angel,’ at thy bidding I have found
Hint of the harmonies where angels dwell,
For all sweet sounds about thy portals meet:
The children's laugh, the goat-bells down the street,
Organ and choral chanting, and the sound
Of that deep, monitory, convent-bell.

THE MONASTERY

ENGELBERG

Grey roof, white walls, and jalousies of green,
So Conrad's house two centuries has stood,
Bold to withstand, as its forerunner could,
All tides of change; and firm to come between
Our restless crowds of rovers and the scene
Where is simplicity of peasanthood,
The herdsman tends his flock or fells the wood,
And poor men live in piety serene.

Abbot! before thy day Frocinus knew
Good work must grow in quiet; he who wrote
The parchment, laboured slowly; though the world
In specious clamour at thy gates be hurled,
With meditation man thy fort anew
And let Distraction here find antidote!

Frocinus the second Abbot was a remarkable scholar, and specimens of his laborious handiwork by way of transcript and Mss. still are preserved in the library of the Monastery.

ABBOT'S DAY, May 15

ENGELBERG

Anselm, this morn, the morn of middle May,
Break never fairer; never from the height
Did angels blither sing at morning light,
Than when the matin-bell bade souls to pray
On this thy namesake's high memorial day,
When Conrad's convent-church, that all the night
Lay hushed with expectation, woke, with might
Of pipe and string, its Hallelujah lay.

But, Abbot, not the incense-bearing priest,
Nor chant of choir and music in accord,
So seemed to celebrate thy golden rule,
As these old men unbidden to the feast,
Who, trained from youth in this thy convent school,
Knelt in the church and blessed the convent's Lord.

GOLD-BODEN

ENGELBERG

Here, in this meadow of the cloth of gold,
Great sovereigns meet, the white-robed Winter-King
And the green-kirtled, glad, triumphant Spring,
A celebration of their peace to hold.
Not, as for mortal kings in days of old,
The shout of hosts and cannons booming bring
Applause; the cataracts roar them welcoming,
The avalanche thunder in their ears is rolled.

With silver clouds for banners, lo! the skies
In blue pavilioned splendour overhead
Shine, and beneath are jewelled tapestries
Such as no earthly kings did ever tread,
For all sweet flowers have hither flung their dyes,
A royal carpet for their feet to spread.

THE FÖHN-WIND

ENGELBERG

The dust-whorls rise and smoke along the road
That maps with milk-white lines the distant vale;
Foreworn we are, we scarce know what we ail,
For lo! the withering Föhn-wind flies abroad;
The mountain packman who so lightly trod
Puts down his pack, uneasy slips his bale,
The mighty eagle's spirit seems to fail,
From weary heights the avalanche casts his load.

With a chill sense of prisonment and fear
The heavy clouds drop down the hills, and near,
Now bitter cold, now fiery is the blast;
Leaves curl, flowers close, the roof-stones crash and fall,
Discomfortable loss is over all;
Comes sunshine and sweet rain! the Föhn is past.

BENEATH TITLIS

ENGELBERG

As one who hears with awe and bated breath
How on the seventh day, when God would rest,
He made a throne of yonder mountain crest,
So passed I silent through the meads beneath.
The stern cliffs stood crowned still with Winter's wreath,
But all the vale by Summer was possest,
The air with sound of waterfalls was blest,
The ground with bloom,—here never could come Death.

And gazing up at Spanort's double horn,
I felt, though angel voices here should cease,
And Love's religion leave its ancient seat,
Man still might know God's will was joy and peace
As long as, close beneath the Almighty's feet,
Such tender flowers in gentleness were born.

AT THE TRUB-SEE

Instead of bluest waters from blue sky,
Grass crocus-pied, with soldanella sown,
Was dismal swamp, snow-scorched and winter-brown
And overlaid with leaden canopy—
Such clouds as hang where souls in torment lie;
While, scared by avalanche-thunder roaring down,
The swifts for silence far away had flown,
And the wild fox paused once, then hurried by.

Then o'er that seething cauldron of the cloud
High Titlis shone; the hand that guards the pass
Stood forth like silver, and we clomb up higher:
Thence gazing, the disconsolate morass
Became a sea of glory, and a crowd
Of angels moving on soft waves of fire.

HERRN RÜTLI

ENGELBERG

When that old Abbot hither drove his kine,
And set on Rütli's hill his byre and bield,
He knew what hand it was that gave him field,
Herb for the cattle, plenteous dew for wine;
And so beside his pen he set this shrine,
And taught his shepherds Christ was Lord and shield,
That not in vain the convent prayers appealed
For fruits on earth, and wealth in things divine.

The shrine is buried, the monk behind the bars
Who held the lily, moulders and decays,
But all who pass this consecrated mound
Will find that from the unforgetful ground
Each Spring come forth earth's multi-coloured stars,
And on the farm Heaven's benediction stays.

ST. FLORIAN

IN THE MONASTERY CHURCH AT ENGELBERG

There was no priest behind this golden gate,
No angel floating in the painted dome
To give him comfort and to guide him home,
When Florian went a martyr to his fate.
He saw no temples thronged and consecrate
With music and the mysteries of Rome;
He dreamed no countless multitudes would come
To gaze upon his bones in jewelled state.

Nay, take those amethysts from out his eyes,
Unstop his careless ears of any gem,
Nor fill his mouth with pearls. A poor man's part
He played, who wears his crown in Paradise,
Who strove to touch his Saviour's simple hem,
Whom Christ wears now, a jewel at His heart.

BLESSING THE PASTURES

ON THE BLACHENALP, ENGELBERG

He had no need of bell to call to prayer,
His meek-eyed congregation with him went,
Jangling their bells all up the steep ascent,
As Father Joseph climbed the mountain stair.
The tapers burned, rich incense filled the air,
Rude cowherds, conscious of his good intent,
Prayed with the priest in adoration bent,
Who gave the pastures to the Almighty's care.

More earnest Paternosters ne'er were said,
And when they issued from the lowly shrine
I saw the names of all the wandering kine
Before the Lord upon the altar spread.
Father in heaven! all things that live are Thine,
Come from Thine hand, and by Thy hand are fed.

OVER THE ST. GOTHARD

We left the fields where Tell the archer bent
The bow whose twanging yet has never died,
And high along the Reuss's rushing tide,
Behind the steamy dragon, up we went.
Chasms were bridged, the very rocks were rent
To let us pass. Aloud the monster cried,
And coiling on itself in earth would glide
By marvellous gyres to gain a higher vent.

Then through the mist of hail and blinding snow
We roared into the tunnel sulphurous, long,
And the head reeled—we almost felt the pain
Of that fierce snorting dragon's forward strain;
Forth leapt the light; blue heaven was ours, and song,
And old Italia lay in sun below.

AT FAIDO, ON THE ST. GOTHARD

You died, but, dalesmen, you did well to die!
Than this rock amphitheatre, what scene
For your brave act could fitter e'er have been!
Above us to the sun the eagles cry,
And Chibiasco, falling from the sky
Death-white, betwixt the pines for ever green,
Gathers new strength behind its watery screen,
And passes on full-souled for liberty.

Brave-hearted men the tyrant's hand might slay!
And, that you suffered centuries of wrong,
Grim chestnuts down the valley still attest;
But a clear voice triumphant, and more strong
Than fierce Ticino, speaks for you to-day,
God's stream of sympathy for souls oppressed.

—The people of Val Leventina revolted in 1755 against the tyranny of the cowherds of Uri, to whom they had been subject since the fifteenth century. The rebellion was terminated at this spot by the execution of the ringleaders, whose heads were fastened to the trunks of the chestnut-trees near, in the presence of three thousand men of the valley.

LOCARNO IN RAIN

Rain on the heights, Italia grim and grey,
And grey the valleys; Bellinzona's plain
And all its vines grey-cloaked in mist and rain,
And Lago Maggiore's northern bay
Through mist and cloud stretched ghost-like; so the day
Died on Locarno's hills in dreary pain;
Down dreary streets groaned by the dark-drenched wain,
And scarce their words the convent-bells could say
For muffled melancholy. By the lake
The frogs croaked loud; all else was lifeless, dull;
And drearily the boatman pushed ashore;
And I had come to thee, Italia, full
Of dreams of sunshine for the hearts that ache,
And Heaven above me blue for evermore!

AT SANTA TRINITA

ABOVE LOCARNO

When sunny Taman trembles for its snow,
And Maggia hot above his milk-white strand
Swims in the haze, leave thou the lower land
While hour by hour the young vine-shadows grow,
And the shy lizard lifts his head to know
Who comes: climb up to where the lime-trees stand
By Santa Trinità, and let the hand
Of the cool zephyr gently touch thy brow.

Then say if wandering faith did ever find
A lovelier place for thought, and cool and calm,
A spot more sure to make an old man pray;
For Maggia, singing still his ancient psalm,
Goes glad to lose his individual mind
And gain the depth and breadth of yonder bay.

SOLITUDO CONTINUATA DULCESCIT

AN INSCRIPTION AT THE GATE OF THE CONVENT OF THE MADONNA DEL SASSO, LOCARNO

Right, friar, right! but not such solitude
As mars the thing you live by, your own soul,
Which needs must think and act, or it dies whole,
Root upward, as your vines die, when the wood
Feels in the rock no more its natural good.
For me—I had rather have for being's goal
The lizard's life beside its cranny's hole,
That grows so like the stone he scans for food.

No; if this rotting out in sloth and rust
Be all God meant when He created man,
Be the sure charm that fits the soul for heaven—
To me let city-noise and crowds be given,
And cast me from your order, under ban
To think and act until my heart be dust.

AT THE BALCONY OF THE CHURCH OF THE MADONNA DEL SASSO

LOCARNO

Here from the brown friars' balcony I gaze,
The long lake laid like silver at my feet,
The yellow tower with harbour-pool complete;
White Maggia and Ticino's dusty ways
Lost in the purple plain and shimmering haze;
From the near gorge, with sound for labour sweet,
The fall of waters, while the crickets beat
Their chirring drums, and red geraniums blaze.

And I am sad; the faith that for the poor
Planted these walls has dwindled; on their knees
Three ancient men implore the Virgin's aid;
Two in the garden tend the brown-backed bees,
Who ply, methinks, to-day a healthier trade
Seeing they drive all idlers from the door.

THE ISLANDS OF LAGO MAGGIORE

When those old Greeks, fordone with toil of seas,
And sorrow of the land, and endless wrong,
Hoped against hope for quiet rest among
Some golden isle of the Hesperides,
They had not seen this tranquil flood, nor these
Calm-girt and azure-circled isles of song
And sun and flower, where all things tender throng,
And earth and air invite perpetual ease—

Or, sure, some singer would have smote his lyre,
And told men tired with wandering, of a lake
In whose calm ripple stars do larger grow,
And clouds gain glory, where like emeralds glow
Green islands at the noon, where mornings break
Up from the depths in golden fleece of fire.

ISOLA-BELLA

Intricate marbles, ceilings lined with gold,
Grottoes for nymphs to hide in, with pretence
Of far sea murmur; man's omnipotence
Over the fiercer brute, in colours scrolled
On tapestries; great terraces that hold
Groves on their shoulders; here magnificence
Breathes from the earth, and over all is sense
Of some enchanter's magic manifold.

And we who, coasting by the gardens, feel
Fragrance of tropic flowers toward us fanned
From orange-fruited walls above the tide,
Almost forgive the men who on their seal
Engraved ‘Humility,’ but stamped their pride
Upon this marvellous isle in fairyland.

—The Borromean crest has for motto the word ‘Humilitas.’

ISOLA-BELLA

He reared a monument, who built this isle,
To show how patriot hearts forbade to roam
Amongst the olives and the vines of home,
Or the dark Austrian pines, must needs beguile
The weariness of longing; pile on pile
Grew with his terraces of borrowed loam,
Trees called the nesting nightingale to come,
Bare rock with flower and fruitage needs must smile.

Ah! Borromeo, though the happy dove
Found rest within your cedars, though your flowers,
Your hills, your grots were consecrate to love,
Though all that wealth could give or art could raise
Above the wondering waters blessed your towers—
Freedom you wanted still, freedom and length of days!

AT BAVENO

HÔTEL BELLE-VUE

I know a palace builded by a lake
That trembles sapphire to the garden wall;
There, till late morn and earliest evening fall,
The nightingale sings clear to hearts that ache.
There the magnolia blooms, the palm-trees shake
From ivory sheathes their golden flowers, and all
Azaleas come for May-tide festival,
And in cool shade their swift surprises make.

There broods above the place a calm divine,
The breath of guardian spirits haunts the air;
There, when the night on Motterone sleeps,
And Pescatori's lamps no longer flare,
I hear the sound that tells from some far shrine
How Prayer her watch unintermittent keeps.

THE FIRE-FLY

BAVENO

When Madre's Island like a shadow lies
High up upon the ‘Iron Rock’—so clear,
Across the still grey water-flood, comes near
The phantom of the mountain—then mine eyes
Are gladdened by a tiny speck that flies
Forth from the myrtle: now it doth appear
A boat's prow lantern, now a starry sphere
Fallen, but how swiftly, from the dusky skies.

I gaze perplexed; the pulses of its light
Beat, and with noiseless beauty move and move,
Then fade, or like a starry jewel burn
Upon the Nereid sitting at her urn,
Anon through sparkling dusk it takes its flight,
A creature made for wonder and for love.

ORANGE-FLOWERS AT BAVENO

Ah! fair Baveno, well do I recall
How, when Pallanza burned and writhed with heat,
Cool shadows fell right downward to thy feet;
And I, who dreamed beside thy water-wall,
Felt the magnolia's incense prodigal
Poured from white cups upon the garden-seat,
The vine flowers' scent impalpable and sweet,
And honeysuckle, sweetest of them all.

But most in that enchanting dewy hour
I blessed the odours from that pearl of grey
That breaks into the semblance of a star,
For then the day came near, that was so far,
When one beside me bare white orange-flower,
And all the world seemed made for marriage day.

DAYLIGHT ON LAGO MAGGIORE

Not as on Derwentwater, when the dawn
Comes dancing o'er Helvellyn, comes the light
To Lago Maggiore: here the night
With jealous, lingering footsteps is withdrawn,
And up the hills, and down the mountain-lawn,
The blue-eyed morn with silver sandals bright
Moves toward the sleeping waters. First to sight
The still grey mirror glimmers into fawn;

Next, while the church-bell moans across the mere
From some far convent, lilac steals from Heaven,
And when the swallow stirs, a roseate cloud
Casts down its purple; blackbirds sing out loud,
Green light and gold from dewy slopes are given,
Then the blue deepens, and the day is here.

AT THE CHURCH DOOR, BAVENO

THE SOLDIER'S OATH

First came the German with his soldier's oath
To Caesar Imperator, and he vowed
To Julia, Dian, and Tarpeia proud,
Here above old Verbanus—nothing loth
To change for soft Italia's sunny sloth
His northern labour; the invader's cloud
Brake o'er the hills—to other gods were bowed
The stubborn necks of Hun and Visigoth.

Last came Heaven's Imperator, whom God sent
To be the word to all whoe'er should till
The vines on Motterone's bowery slope;
And now, while fragrant clouds the old church fill,
And the priest mumbles in his golden cope,
The pure in heart may claim Christ's sacrament.

—At the porch of the old Church of Baveno a Roman altar has been built into the wall with a dedication to Diana, Julia, and Tarpeia: the same wall has been painted over 165 in Byzantine times with a large fresco of Christ, now hardly distinguishable.

ON MONTE MOTTERONE

Thy feet are set in waters sapphire clear,
Thy knees are cool with chestnut and the vine,
The star-narcissus girds thee, bells of kine
Sound on thy brow, the lark enchants thine ear,
Northward the ice-kings frown, thou hast no fear—
Though east and west perpetual winter shine,
For southward to the furthest Apennine
Thine eyes can gaze on harvest all the year.

To thee was given a trust, and not in vain,
Thou great inspirer; he who when he died
Slept with his horse and armour by his side,
Here on this utmost peak, has left the key
To thy heart's secret; yonder peaceful plain
Knows well the crown of strife is Liberty.

—The top of Monte Motterone is the scene of the meeting of Mazzini and leaders of Italian Unity, in George Meredith's novel Vittoria. In digging the foundation of the hotel on the ridge of the mountain, an axe, a spear, a horse-shoe and a key were found in what must have been some chieftain's grave.

SUNRISE FROM MONTE MOTTERONE

Pale Lago Maggiore lay below,
And stretched a death-white arm toward the day;
Lombardia's plain was veiled, and Toche grey
Swept down dark vales to livid Orphano;
Far to the west, with her nine peaks of snow,
Stood Monte Rosa, ghostlike—you would say
No sun could ever rise to chase away
Such lifeless shadow with triumphant glow.

But sudden, eastward, under bars of gold,
Gleamed the first glorious promise of the morn,
And Monte Rosa trembled into flame:
Then all the valleys purpled, fold on fold,
The long lake lightened, over miles of corn
The Sun, the Bringer of life's gladness, came!

THE PHEASANT-EYE NARCISSUS

UP MONTE MOTTERONE

Above the vines the cherry-trees are growing,
The chestnuts o'er the cherries make cool shade,
And I up-wandering found a little maid
Whose hair was brown, whose eyes like jet were glowing.
She looked me through, as of my heart's wish knowing,
Then in her gentlest Latin tone she said:
‘These are the flowers wherefrom our wreaths we braid
When to the church in May-time we are going.’

I looked, and lo! ten thousand thousand stars,
With eyes like pheasant's, glittered in the grass,
And where the crickets made their gayest cheer
She plucked and sang and plucked, and I, alas!
Knew not the words, but still these liquid bars
Of song in soft narcissus-time I hear.

THE MONTE SACRO

AT VARALLO

I ask no hundred days exempt from pain,
For I have seen here Christ upon His rood—
I, who 'neath stars of Bethlehem have stood,
Drunk Nazareth's well, by Galilee's blue plain
Of sparkling waters wandered, and was fain
To weep at Olivet, in solemn mood
Have climbed, Varallo, through thy holy wood,
And seen hate's loss and love's eternal gain.

What Caimi planned and grave Gaudenzio drew
Shall moulder in each iron-grated cell,
And Borromeo's skull shall grin no more;
But long as Mastelone's waters roar,
The faith that built compassion's citadel
Shall on these heights her eagle's wings renew.

—Bernardino Caimi on his return from the Holy Land in 1491 founded the Sacro Monte at Varallo. St. Carlo Borromeo seems to have refounded it in 1678: his skull is pointed at within an iron grating near the Holy Sepulchre. Gaudenzio Ferrari, the famous Val-Sesian painter, born about 1484, appears to have painted with fresco many of the chapels on the Sacro Monte between the years 1524 and 1528.

THE MUSIC OF THE DAWN

HÔTEL SPLENDIDE, LUGANO

From this flower-girdled palace by the shore
Of old Ceresio, like a casket set,
How many eyes, when dark and dawning met,
Have almost wished the noon would come no more,
The morning woke so wondrously,—before,
Caprino stood, dark purple, dewy wet,
While far Legnone's snowy coronet
Flashed glory southward to San Salvador.

Then all things that had breath a moment stirred;
The roses trembled, every mountain lawn
Moved into shadow-dance, as if it heard
The music of the making of the dawn;
And, to the song of birds, the sleeping lake
Seemed with a sudden sense of joyousness to wake.

EVENING FROM SAN SALVATORE

When all the hills between us and the west
Seem unsubstantial from the breath of Him
Who framed them, and where Specchio's waters brim,
The grey plain shows the jewel on her breast,
Then do I climb San Salvatore's crest,
And bow my knee within its chapel dim,
And hear from far-off bells the sound up-swim
Of thanks to God who gives His people rest:—

Rest for the beasts that toil, the men who till;
Rest for the farms, safe-sheltered in their groves;
Rest for the upland huts, the lakeside town;
But one dark thing unresting moves and moves
O'er Campione and Caprino's hill,
The growing shadow of Saint Saviour's crown.

THE NIGHTINGALE OF LUGANO

Come from a north that knows no nightingale,
How could my heart not thrill to hear the song
That tells so many centuries of wrong
With such an old-world sweetness? To its tale
San Salvatore in the moonlight pale
Hushed all his leafy whispers, and the throng
Of feet that passed in heedlessness along
Paused, and the fisher luffed his homeward sail.

For from the fragrant myrtle by the lake,
And from the stars, and from the pearly tide,
There came the voice of Philomel, to say
That souls must sorrow and that hearts must ache,
Till Hate has vanished and till Death has died,
And Love find Love, and Night become the Day.

IN THE CHURCH OF S. MARIA DEGLI ANGIOLI

LUGANO

In Mary's Church of Angels by the shore—
Wherein Luini, labouring for his bread,
Painted the Bread of Heaven, a Saviour dead,
And gained not gold, but fame for evermore—
Is Christ the Child, and She whom men adore:
He rides no horse, bestrides a lamb instead,
Facing the boy Saint John with curly head,
And heart ripe-full of frolic to the core.

But I might see how still the Saviour-Child
Looked for communion to His Mother's eyes,
And questioning held the lambkin by its ear,
While She, as if She felt how sacrifice
And some dark day of doom was drawing near,
With sweet assent most pitifully smiled.

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE

LUGANO

When to far shepherds on Caprino's height
The day has died from off Legnone's snow,
And very solemnly the afterglow
Enpurples Salvatore, sudden light
Springs up beyond Porlezza; burnished bright,
Cloud-mountains in the clear green ether grow,
And with new glories leaping from below
Lugano's water quite forbids the night.

So when our daylight darkens on the slope
Of these dim hills up which our feet have trod,
May rain and mist of tears have built in Heaven
Hills flushed with Love, and heights aflame with God,
Wherefrom to eyes that watch shall still be given
Some sign of joy, some monument of hope.

LANZO D'INTELVI

We left the torrent in its sinuous cave,
Osteno's tower clanged out Farewell! Farewell!
Upward we went by cuckoo-haunted dell
And cricket-hearted meadow. Cheerly brave
The horses jangled onward, wave on wave
Green billowy slopes to far Porlezza fell,
Till on our left we heard deep Lanzo's bell,
And knew what hope of home its music gave.

Then down an English lane, through English air,
We, but just now in Italy, passed on,
A blackbird carolled with a voice of May,
When sudden at our feet a sapphire shone,
And with its villages reflected fair,
Blue deeps—a heaven on earth—Lugano lay!

A STORM

ON MONTE GENEROSO

Through fragrant beechen groves we speed our way;
Below, the villages from steep to steep
Crowd round their churches close, like flocks of sheep
Huddled about their shepherds in dismay;
The Lombard plain's great level—blue and grey,
Through which the coiling rivers gleam and sweep
Like a sun-smitten, sail-flecked, shadowy deep—
Rolls into distance, with a vast inlay
Of towns and towers unnumbered; furthest seen,
A snowy bar of never-melting cloud,
Borne high on purple wings, the mountains stand,
And sudden from the peaks of Oberland
To Piedmont's nearest spur of misty green
Fierce lightnings flash, the thunder peals aloud.

THE LOST HALF-HOUR

LUGANO, MIDNIGHT, MAY 31, 1894

Last night the clocks that clanged from every tower
Struck twelve, then, leaping forward, lightly went,
And Europe's middle nations by consent
Gave to the hand of Death a full half-hour.
If mortals had such arbitrary power,
What hours of wrong, what moments idly spent
Should we consign to endless banishment,
Or give to dull oblivion for his dower!

We would not wait for midnight's drowse of sleep,
Nor make-believe with cog and weight and wheel
And senseless dial to cast the time away;
But wide-awake, and in the face of day
Our shears should cut, albeit the wound was deep,
And trust Love's full forgetfulness to heal.

—At midnight of May 31, 1894, by international consent, Italy, Switzerland, and Austria put all their clocks forward thirty minutes, and took a Mid-Europe standard time.

AT THE CHAPEL OF THE ANNUNCIATION

SACRO MONTE, VARESE

Hard by the Gate of Joy is nobly set
A chapel to the Lady of the Rose;
Who, crossing from the fountain, thither goes,
May see a simple bedchamber complete
With such adorning as for maids is meet:
Beside the bed, all ranged in order close,
Are set the shoes, the basket for her hose
Stands near, unruffled lies the coverlet.

And all the air is quiet, but I might see
One heart beat fast in wonder what would prove
The angel's salutation in her ears:
‘Hail, Mary! for the Lord is come to thee.’
Speechless she stands, while o'er her floats the dove,
And dovelike in her innocence she hears.

EVENING AT SACRO MONTE

VARESE

How falls the evening on Varese's plain
When over Monte Rosa day declines!—
A cool air whispers in among the vines;
The swifts cry loud, and from her grove again
The nightingale retells her love and pain;
White lies the lake, stand purple-dark the pines;
Unseen before to sudden brightness shines
Now town, now tower, like lilies after rain.

Then populous cities tremble into haze,
The silver roads gleam out and fade afar,
The lucent mists go wandering out of sight,
Till, though Bisbino show his silver star,
Our sacred mountain's shadow as we gaze
Grows, and Val Gagna darkens into night.

ON THE ROOF OF THE DUOMO, MILAN, AT ANTHEM TIME

Here on this marble mountain, as I stand
Among its multitudes as white as snow
Of forms fresh-winged for Heaven, who fain would go
But linger, waiting God's august command,
I hear the cupola, Omodei planned,
And Croce's tower, throb loud, while far below
Organ and chant would have us mortals know
How heart of stone can join the angel band.

Then with triumphal benison, the choir
Of saints, who bore the cross and wear the crown,
Breaks into Alleluias with accord;
And sounding forth beyond the purple town,
From Lambro's tide to Monte Viso's spire,
A people's praise floats upward to the Lord.

IN MILAN CATHEDRAL

Forth from the sun-lit city's dazzling square,
The cloistral mart, the teeming colonnade,
I passed through gates of silence into shade,
Blind for the sudden contrast, and was 'ware
Of shadowy congregations bowed in prayer;
And while through awesome dusk an organ made
Its moan, one murmured, and a phantom swayed
And tossed dark arms above the altar-stair.

High over all, in His death agony—
The sole weird gleam in that cathedral gloom—
Hung Christ in utter friendlessness of woe;
I felt fresh hours of darkness and of doom,
I heard a great exceeding bitter cry—
‘Friend! brother! why dost thou forsake Me so?’

IN THE REFECTORY, MILAN

[_]

As one sits in front of Leonardo's great picture of the Last Supper, one may see inscribed upon the walls the motto, ‘COMEDITE AMICI HIS CONTENTI SIMUS.’

Ay, we may feed, and therewith be content,
Seeing for those who gaze on yonder square
The painter Leonardo gives the fare;
For though he failed him of his full intent,
And the false oil with truest colour blent
Has left the Christ a phantom on the air
Of the blue twilight, still the face is there,
We know the Man Divine, Da Vinci meant.

They scarce can speak; they mutter, ‘Is it I?’
Save Judas, he can boldly ask the Lord,
For he has heard what Peter whispered John.
James draws his breath for horror, says no word,
But one majestic Face looks sadly on,
Less sorrowful for death than treachery.

AT COMO CATHEDRAL

PLINY'S STATUE

Here sits in marble, with his scroll in hand,
The student-lover of the Larian lake,
Whom Trajan trusted for his wisdom's sake;
Who, going governor to the Asian land,
Waited his Lord's imperial command,
What steps to stay that heresy he should take,
Which, in the name of Christ, had dared forsake
The temple courts, and all Jove's altars banned.

He saw Vesuvius' ashes blur the sky
And bury Herculaneum; dreamed not Rome
Would sink in fiercer fires; nor ever knew
That ‘harmless superstition, doomed to die
A natural death,’ would to his honouring come,
With sweet forgiveness for the hand that slew.

—Pliny in his famous rescript to Trajan describes the new Christianity, which is the subject of his letter, as ‘a harmless superstition doomed to die.’

MORNING AT SOGLIO

Fresh from the silence of Lombardia's plain,
How pleasant, Soglio, on thy lawns to hear
The sound of falling waters, far and near!
The roar of Mera, careless of all rain,
Knowing ‘Bondasca’ gives her snowy gain;
The flute of ouzel, and that chime most dear
To him who loves the simple mountaineer—
The mellow cow-bells, with their soothing strain.

But sweeter far it is to wake at morn
And hear above the murmur of the stream
The children's voices, and the pattering feet
Of friends, that for another glad day meet—
The goats—who come obedient to the horn,
Drink at the fount, and vanish like a dream.

THE WITNESS OF THE FLOWERS

AT PIAN LUTHERO, SOGLIO

No wonder, in the valley far below,
That Luther's meadow every June is white
With fair St. Bruno's stars; that on this height,
Round Luther's Plain, the scarlet lilies blow:
For here men stood who, brave to overthrow
That creed which hung between them and the Light,
Man's mediatorial darkness, claimed the right
Of lonely souls, their Father's love to know.

Wherefore each Spring the white flowers' starry host
Gleams in you valley meadow, to proclaim
That there of old, upon a Christmas morn,
To Bethlehem's star, a people's vow was sworn,
And, symbol of God's glorious Pentecost,
Here lilies break to scarlet tongues of flame.

OVER THE SPLUGEN

THE NAVVY'S CROSS

I, wandering up by steep St. Jacomo,
Where, swift for Barbarossa's ancient halls
The Liro leaps, and fills the valley walls
With thunder, thought how hither long ago
Macdonald pushed his cannon through the snow,
Battling with winter; heard his bugle-calls,
Saw regiments swept to death by avalanche falls,
Men mad for fear, who quailed not at the foe.

Fame of thy deed, Macdonald, shall not cease
While men praise war; but lo! this iron cross
Tells how some simple labourer toiling died:
You hewed a mountain path in warrior pride—
His venture was a nobler thing—his loss
Dear life, in service of the way of Peace.

—On the 4th December 1804, General Macdonald made a desperate passage of the Splugen to cover the flank of the Italian army: whole regiments were swept away by the avalanche, but he accomplished his endeavour. Travellers over the Splugen will note the little iron monumental crosses that record the death of workmen who perished in the making of the road.

MY FRIEND AND I

THE SPLÜGEN PASS

There in the barren pass I saw him stand,
His yellow hair, his eyes that seemed to shine
Like those forget-me-nots of blue divine
That gem the mountain slopes. ‘My Fatherland!’
He cried, ‘with breath of Home my brows are fanned!’
And down, through cowbell chimes and odorous pine,
Toward the cradle of the nursling Rhine
We went with hearts together, hand in hand.

There leapt the rushing torrent blanched by snow,
That keeps a nation strong and sings it free;
And as I gazed, the gates of Time flung wide,
The self-same river with primæval tide
Made mine own England out of darkness grow,
And swept a path for the encircling sea.

KURHAUS, BRÜNIG

High on the bowery pass the hostel stood,
All day the warblers filled the balmy air
With life's intoxication, driving care
And pain and passionless being from the wood;
All night the cricket and his merry brood
Chirped of content, and down the mountain-stair,
Across the vale, with silver-flashing hair
The torrent sisters sang of summer flood.

Around the house were quiet leafy places,
Where pathways led from glade to beechen glade
With irresistible windings, and sweet lure
From Alp to Alp—so tranquil, so secure,
You almost thought to see the shy fawn faces,
And felt that Pan's old empire was remade.

THE FALLS OF THE REICHENBACH

Through houses blackened by the fire's fierce tongue
We crossed the Aar, we clomb the mountainstair,
And sudden o'er a chalet-roof were 'ware
Of a huge cloud of whitest smoke that sprung
Forth from a cleft, and bellowed loud, and clung
And belched as Hell had opened wide on air,
While voices of the doomed in wild despair
O'er Hasli's vale in lamentation hung.

There came a child; no fear was in her face,
And following up the Reichenbach, we found
The Rosenlaui's gift of melting snow;
A thousand angel-figures seemed to throw
Hands over head and leap with jubilant sound
In flowing skirts of unimagined grace.

FROM MEIRINGEN TO ROSENLAUI

We left that vale of waters where the air
Is never silent; Reichenbach outspoke
With voice of thunder from his cloud of smoke,
Wherein he hides his restlessness and care.
Wet with his breath, we climbed the stony stair,
Till Rosenlaui's wonder on us broke,
And Wellhorn with her pines and glacier-cloak
Cast round her shoulders rose: peace, peace was there.

It seemed as if the torrent at our side
By such tranquillity was dispossest
Of its own natural haste, forgot the falls
And foam of Rosenlaui's water-walls,
And dreaming that its calm would still abide,
Bade weary hearts a little while have rest.

BETWEEN ROSENLAUI AND THE SCHWARZWALD

The huts were closed, no cowbells chiming clear
Told that swift June had overtaken May,
The Reichenbach in sorrow by our way
Made moan with waters colourless and drear,
And those dark pines that murmured sadly near
Stood without song of bird, and seemed to say
Grim Wellhorn's pitiless heights of silver-grey
Had filled their hearts from youth with sense of fear.

Then at my feet in multitudes I saw
Blue gentian and the mealy primrose shine,
And heard far-off a happy goat-herd boy
Call to his fellow through the groves of pine;
Methought, such souls no wilderness can awe,
Youth's quintessential life is fearless joy.

AT INTERLAKEN

From loud Italia and her echoing streets,
Her ash-grey rivers and her songless plain,
How good to hear the blackbird's jocund strain,
And rest upon your walnut-shadowed seats
Where Bodeli's emerald river brims and fleets
Southward,—to watch the mower pile his wain
Here in your mighty mead, and feel again
The ‘Mountain Maiden’ temper noontide heats.

Bodeli! the monks who built their house of prayer,
Or round their cloister-meadow set sweet shade,
If e'er they felt their hearts in vain had striven
To break earth-fetters so much beauty made,
Lifted their eyes, and Jungfrau shining fair
Caught up their souls unerringly to Heaven.

THE JUNGFRAU

FROM THE HOHEWEG, INTERLAKEN

In that old cloistral mead of grass and flower
Beneath the mossy walnuts' gathering shade,
We watched the snow-white mighty Mountain-Maid
Go through her changes, felt her glorious dower
Of calm and purity, and knew the power
Wherewith she comes all mortal hearts to aid,
When sure of life hereafter, unafraid,
She waits in patience her appointed hour.

The sunlight faded from her virgin crown,
And there she sat majestic, spectral, pale,
Till all her long day's unremembered grace
Reborn with roseate splendours flushed her face,
And o'er the undying Lady of the vale
The deathless stars with welcoming look down.

AT BREITLAUENEN

SCHYNIGE PLATTE

Who 'neath Breitlauenen's larches seeks his rest,
What time from Niederhorn's empurpled walls
The first night-shadow over Brienz falls,
When all the flame that ever fired the west
Burns through soft haze on Thun's resplendent breast—
Will hear such silver chime of cattle-calls
As needs must charm the ear it quite enthralls,
And make him feel the mountain life is best.—

For in the plain, 'twixt either sister lake,
Brown dwellings swarm like busy clustering bees
That know no rest; there commerce cries her wares,
There labourers patch the earth with purple squares,
Down there are hates, resentments, jealousies;
Here at Breitlauenen, hearts can never ache.

ON THE GEISSHORN

SCHYNIGE PLATTE

If one should ask where mortal man may stand
Who feels for this life's littleness forlorn,
To know cloud mysteries, learn how Heaven is born,
How earth was built, and with what prodigal hand
She yields her jewels when Junetide gives command—
Here would I set him on this grassy horn,
When unimaginably bright the morn
Shines on the silent peaks of Oberland.

Then the deep gorge is glad with torrent tone
That bids the great world rest not but rejoice,
Then in the ‘Vale of Waters’ to the dawn
The Staubbach waves her flag of rainbow lawn,
And hard by, seated on his mighty throne,
The young glad day sends forth a glorious voice.

THE CHAMOIS OF LAUTERBRUNNEN

They penned it for a peepshow in the vale,
A creature of the clouds and of the air,
Bold as the wind the barren heights to dare,
With heart as restless as the flying gale.
How could its life not droop, its spirits fail?
He saw the sun on Jungfrau shining fair—
Those silver cliffs, the craggy precipice-stair
That led to pastures only he could scale.

All day white Lütschĭne through his prison gate
Sang loud of liberty; he felt the smoke
Of Staubbach free as angels, and one day
He caught the far-off whistle of his mate
Sound from the Mönch's dark shoulders, and men say
‘A chamois died!’—'twas Freedom's heart that broke.

THE GUIDE'S FAREWELL

TO ULRICH LAUENER AT LAUTERBRUNNEN

Last veteran of a lion-hearted band,
Withered of form, in spirit unsubdued,
The conqueror of the mountain solitude,
He stood alone; his snow-seared eyes still scanned
The well-loved heights: I held his horny hand,
That hand so sure in all vicissitude,—
And this was he who first of men had stood
On many a virgin peak of Oberland;

And this was he who well had fenced with death,
Who well had kept all charges to him given.
Now he was old, his bones were racked with pain;
‘Farewell,’ I cried, ‘brave heart, we meet again!’
And Ulrich answered grave, beneath his breath,
‘Master, no more on earth! perchance in Heaven.’

—In May of 1893, at Lauterbrunnen, I met Ulrich Lauener, a last survivor of his contemporaries, the famous band of Oberland guides. Himself the first to stand on the summit of the Weisshorn, Dent-Blanche, Rothhorn, and Grand Cornier, he was guide to Professor Tyndall and other of the most daring climbers in the middle of this century. Now an old man of 72, erect, but stiff and much troubled with rheumatism, his dim eyes lit up as he talked of the ascents he had made. Even as late as last summer he had ascended the Jungfrau. ‘I was ever a careful man, far-sighted,’ he said, ‘and in all my climbing, thank God, never met with accident.’ ‘Farewell, Ulrich,’ said my friend, who had one time employed him as guide, ‘we shall meet again.’—‘On earth no more, sir,’ answered Ulrich solemnly, ‘perchance in Heaven.’

THE WIRTSCHAFT ON THE OLD FOOTPATH TO MÜRREN

Where Staubbach gathers strength within the wood
To pour itself in music to the vale,
The rest-house stands, whose welcome cannot fail
For all who deem that shade and song are good.
Here, when the midday sun with silver flood
Pours over Jungfrau, and the Monk is pale,
Oft have I listened to the traveller's tale,
And known the joy of wandering brotherhood.

For all who hither climb or here descend
Bring with them scent of pines and sight of flowers,
And the continual sound of falling streams,
The glowing mountains minister to dreams
Of cloudless sun, perpetual summer hours,
And not a man but feels his fellow friend.

ON THE KURHAUS TERRACE, MÜRREN

From Eiger round to snowy Gspaltenhorn
No cloud can dare to fleck the tranquil sky,
The redcap warbles, and the wild choughs cry,
While sound of waterfalls from distance borne
Through lilac-scented air this sunny morn
Brings to us sense of cool and melody:
What heart can fail to put the future by,
What soul but feels the present less forlorn?

And if the avalanche thunder from the height,
It thunders harmlessly; on yonder hill,
With its grey bastions and its golden towers,
The echoes die, they cannot even fright
The chamois feeding safe among the flowers,
And all the world seems here secure from ill.

ON THE SCHILTHORN, June 21, 1896

THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH BY LIGHTNING OF MRS. ARBUTHNOT

Still on the Schilthorn stands the funeral-stone,
Though six-and-thirty years have flown to-day
Since Heaven's fire-chariot bore the bride away
And left her lover on the mount alone;
Few pass without a deep-drawn sigh, and none
Speak as they pass; in secret many pray;
And when about the place fierce lightnings play,
Grief sounds within the thunder's solemn tone.

There is small need of monumental cross,
As long as hearts are human and tears fall
For life cut short, beloved from lover torn;
The whole drear scene from 'neath this snowy horn
To Jungfrau's height is eloquent of loss—
The mountain is the Bride's memorial.

IN THE BLUMENTHAL, MURREN

Bring the tired hearts whom Nature's power can aid,
By this world's use benumbed or crushed by ills,
Here to the crescent circle of these hills,
Where sit the kings of winter snow-arrayed.
Hence shall ye watch clouds born, see thunder made,
Catch the ‘Monk's’ music with his thousand rills,
And feel what fear the ‘Trembling Valley’ fills
When Jungfrau roars her ceaseless cannonade.

And if at all the terror of the place,
The unapproachable weight of wonder, make
The soul shrink back, and sense of beauty fail,
Let soldanella's thousands, and the race
Of sulphur wind-flowers and the crocus pale
Bid fearless love and reverent joy awake.

ALPINE ANEMONES

IN THE BLUMENTHAL AT MÜRREN

Crushed by the overpowering bastion wall
Of Jungfrau's height, appalled and soul-oppressed,
We turned for breathing to a wider west,
And climbed the narrow path to Blumenthal;
Sadly the herdsman patched his broken stall,
So long the snow his pasture had possessed;
The winter cold had burnt the mountain-breast,
And driven the flowers, we thought, beyond recall.

Then sudden by a stream's impetuous race,
Like sunshine breaking upward through the ground,
A host of frail anemones were seen,
Part white, part yellow, dancing on the green:
We felt our souls unto their measure bound
To find light hearts in such a lonely place.

SPRING CROCUSES

IN THE BLUMENTHAL, MÜRREN

We are the sun's first couriers, and we know
What grass shall clothe the mountain and the moor,
What flowers shall bless the children of the poor,
And set the humblest cottage rooms aglow;
Here, long before the herdsmen open throw
Their chalet windows and the frost-browned door,
We people with white multitudes the floor,
And push our tender spear-heads through the snow.

And mortals, straying to our upland home,
Where no bees murmur yet and no birds sing,
Have marvelled at our boldness, and have said,
‘How are these gentle creatures unafraid?’—
They have not learned that from God's hand we come
To speed with joy His message of the spring.

THE SCHWARZE MÖNCH

FROM MÜRREN

The skirts of other mightier mountains sink
To sunny woods and pastures gay with flowers,
But to thy making there came sterner powers—
Fear and despair, that tremble on the brink,
And awe, that from thy presence still would shrink.
Thou hurlest Winter from thy snowy towers,
No cloud in Spring with freshness on thee lowers,
And of the Summer rain thou dost not drink.

The million years have striven to lend thee grace,
Unnumbered suns have given thee gold for grey,
Through dawn, through dark the torrents wrap thee round
With floating veils of soft, incessant sound;
Utterly naked, still thou dost out-face
Full glare of noon, and blush of setting day.

THE WENGEN THRUSH

He never quite forgets that liquid lay
Who hears the warbler in the Stanstadt reeds,
Yet if when squirrels drop their whispering seeds
And spruce-tufts cast their yellow hoods away
Through Wengen woods the traveller chance to stray,
Thenceforth all other song he little heeds—
He feels himself borne back to English meads
And dreams of bluebell woods and wreaths of May.

For here with indefatigable voice
The speckled bird makes merry in the bush,
And carols forth so lustily and strong
You might believe each thing that would rejoice—
Tree, flower, sun, air—had bade the happy thrush
To be its minister of soul and song.

100

THE RAINBOW FIELDS OF WENGEN

Summer and winter time should never cease,
So seem those snowy heights, these fields to say;
Let rainbows trick the air with bright array,
And through the storm-shower let the sun speak peace,
We have no need of messengers like these,
No signs of bow and cloud to pass away,
Born of the sun and rain to longer stay,
Earth flings her rainbow's banner on the leas.

For here when cranesbill purples all the grass,
June wears such colours as men see in Heaven,
And casts her mantle o'er the meadow slope
So flower-embroidered, not a soul can pass
But feels God's covenant of love regiven,
And hears the undying harvest-song of hope.

101

‘LINKST HAND,’ ON SULEGG

When out of deeps abysmal Sulegg came,
Did old Oceanus with dark-browed despair
Sit yonder in his lone colossal chair
To watch his 'minished kingdom as the frame
Of earth grew visible, and did he blame
Peak after peak uprising bald and bare,
And laugh to see the great tides rend and tear
The valleys with a might no hand could tame?

Or rather, climbing to his high-built seat,
Did some earth-giant view with cruel eyes
The mountains lift, and life and war begin?
Or did the God of earth and sea and skies
Through clouds of new-born incense at His feet
Hear prayers of men and praise of seraphin?

102

AT THE METTLEN ALP

WENGERN

There, Death and Terror hold an endless reign,
Far up, from cruel cliffs of silver-grey
Grim glaciers break and cast their lives away
With groaning and unutterable pain;
Here, Life and Peace abide; with silver strain
Of bells the cattle through the pine-groves stray,
A soft wind sets the flowering firs asway
And fills the air with pollen's golden rain.

Life! Death!—how narrow is the gulf between!
Yet none may dare to cross the dread crevasse—
Here, summer-meads beneficently green,
There, winter-heights that know no joy of grass,
While thundering out of sight to the ravine
All day the Jungfrau's avalanches pass.

103

THE YOUNG HERDSMAN'S DEATH

WENGERN

Upon his fir-bough mattress dying lay
The youngest herdsman of the Wengern folk,
And very tenderly the grey-beards spoke
Of home and friends in valleys far away.
He clasped his hands together, seemed to pray,
Then slept, but sudden from his dream awoke
Crying, ‘The young bull from the pasture broke,
But I must bring him back ere close of day.’

And he went forth in spirit to the wild,
His eyes are closed, his body lies stark still,
And round his bed gaze wistfully the kine.
Father of all, Thou wilt receive this child
Who, to the last, earth's duty would fulfil,
For work is prayer, the labourer's wage is Thine.

104

A MEMORY AT THE MÄNNLICHEN

MARGARET

Why should I mourn or nurse a bitter smart
Because no more she doth companion me?
Through the dark pines her sunny face I see,
Her laughter from the wild rock seems to start;
Here at the Männlichen her childish heart
Made winter spring, she sought the flowers with glee,
Crocus and gentian and anemone,
Of the live air her spirit's joy was part—

Yea, still is part; although her feet are gone
To fairer heights where only angels are,
Her presence haunts the mountain path to-day;
Her gladness on this upland lingers on,
And not a gentian cup nor crocus star
But shines more bright, because she passed this way.

105

THE JUNGFRAU UNVEILED

FROM WENGERN ALP

Loud torrent voices bellowed through the mist,
The Trumlenthal was filled with awe and sound,
We almost felt the avalanche shake the ground,
As downward through the cloud the ice-balls hissed;
Then, like a lover, lo! the strong sun kissed
His virgin-bride, the veil that clung around
Was tenderly disparted, snowy-crowned
Her glorious head to azure heights uprist.

Even as I gazed the marvel seemed to grow,
For on her breast a flowing scarf was seen,
Fold upon fold translucently revealed,
Part silver-frosted and part emerald-green,—
I knew not which was fairer, crown of snow,
Or that deep-wrinkled, wondrous glacier-field.

106

THE ALPINE ROSE

LITTLE SCHEIDEGG

Thine is the rare, incomparable might
To warm a nation's heart, and year by year
For valley dweller and for mountaineer
To bring new sense of summer and delight.
June sees thee first upon the barren height
With iron-rusted leaves, buds bronzed and sere,
Then plump the petals, for the bells ring near,
And sudden all thy plumes are flushed and bright.

Brave rhododendron! Bacchus never gave
Such joy behind his thyrsus as is thine
When thy small thyrsus-buds to beauty break;
When, filled with mountain glory as with wine,
The village youths thy first fair cluster take
And dance down-hill behind the rose-crowned stave.

107

THE WARBLER'S SONG

GRINDELWALD

Come not in August when the slopes are green
And Eiger's robe of ermine turns to grey,—
Come rather when the orchards gleam with May,
And later when the gold laburnum's screen
Lets through the lilac's fragrance. Then is seen
In poor men's gardens, either side the way,
Lilies of scarlet for a king's array,
And picris lights the fields with golden sheen.

But not for fragrant flowers nor fear of scythe
In June I seek the pleasant alder-groves,
Where the dark Lütschĭne pours herself along:
It is because the little warbler loves
To tell in June how hearts should all be blithe
And fill the valley with exuberant song.

108

AT THE UPPER GLACIER, GRINDELWALD

I felt upon my brow the bitter breath
Of irresistible woe for far and wide,
When o'er me hung the grey-green glacier-tide
That seemed to threaten all the plain beneath;
But as with awe the ice-cold wings of death
Fanned the soft air, I suddenly espied,
Full in the torrent track, with fearless pride,
The seedling sprang, and bloomed the cystus-wreath.

Then I bethought me how these brave things knew
How all the weight of desolation hung
There, on the dark cliff's shoulders, once had been
But tender mist that made the valleys green,
Dawn's lightest exhalation, and the dew
That feeds the flowers and keeps the pastures young.

109

A RETURN TO ST. BEATENBERG

Once more the crags of Niederhorn we greet,
And face to face the snowy giants rise;
Once more the lake a hundred thousand dyes
Of peacock-green is stretched beneath our feet.
There sits the young wood-carver in his seat;
Fresh from the block, and with the same surprise,
The chamois gazes; here the goathoy hies,
And there the milkman that we used to meet.

Thrice happy hill! the same far cuckoo calls,
The same shrill cricket chirps his noontide cheer,
The same light gleams on yonder water's breast—
The only change beneath your sheltering walls
Are these tired hearts that hither come for rest,
To find the balm of constant friendship here.

110

HÔTEL DE LA POSTE, 1890

ST. BEATENBERG

High perched among the chalets on the steep,
And fenced from all the northern winds that blow,
It seemed high heaven's tranquillity to know,
To feel the calm of emerald waters deep,
And breathe the dark fir-forests' fragrant sleep;
In front, those three great giant kings of snow
Sat throned, until for robes of roseate glow
Night gave them starry diadems to keep.

At morn the goat-bells woke the house with cheer,
At noon the crickets chirped with merry mind,
While old men rested in the bowery shade;
There was no hostel all the upland near
That seemed so well for weary mortals made,
So happy, simple-hearted, homely, kind.

111

THE VISION OF KINGS

ST. BEATENBERG

The daylight fell, and vast o'ershadowings
Filled with their purple dark the valleys under,
When swift as thought Heaven's veil was rent asunder,
And gave us vision of the mountain kings;
Their thrones—carved ivory, unsubstantial things,
Such as men only dream of—seemed a wonder
Of palpitating fire, and grey with thunder
A huge cloud bore them up on plumy wings.

Then forth on Eiger's topmost peak out-stepped
The full orbed moon, and swift away she drew
Death-pale—her envy could not brook the sight,
For while beneath her feet earth's darkness crept,
These mountain kings in power and glory grew
To stay the sun, and to delay the night.

112

AFTERGLOW ON THE ABENDBERG

The day had been a day of clouds that lower—
Such days as Cumbrian shepherds only know—
No sun, no moon, when sudden from below
O'er the still lake the sunset smote with power,
And the grey wrinkled cliff gave back the dower
Of such transcendent magic afterglow
As made one long with shallop-oars to row,
And share the radiance of its rosy shower.

So have I seen upon an aged face
Storm-wrinkled, gazing from its height of peace
O'er the calm deeps of Death that lie before,
At sunset-time, a sudden wondrous grace
That made me yearn to reach the further shore,
And share their joy whose light can never cease.

113

A GLIMPSE OF THE JUNGFRAU

ST. BEATENBERG

As one in sorrow, mourning for his bride,
Sees through his cloud of winter-grief arise
The well-loved form with summer in her eyes,
And dreams again he views her in her pride
Of snowy-pure apparel at his side,
And feels, in sooth, too happy for surprise,
Till the form fades, the dream of beauty dies,
And he mourns on with soul unsatisfied,—

So, after days of darkness, did it seem,
Suddenly splendid out of middle Heaven
The Maiden Mount that is the bride of dawn
Showed snowy pure, as swift to be withdrawn—
I well-nigh wished the clouds had never given
The glory of that dissoluble dream.

114

IN BUTTERFLY-LAND

ST. BEATENBERG

It seemed as if all butterflies that flew,
By some attractive fragrance in the air
Too subtle for man's finding, settled there;
The scarlet-ounced Apollo came to view
His mate more beauteous in her bridal hue;
Thither fritillaries floated large and fair
Like burnished bronze, and wings shone every-where,
That made the grass to blossom violet-blue.

And thither golden-green the beetles came,
With fragile things of emerald gauze and light,
That rested till some sudden ecstasy
Caught them and cast them sunward;—ah! thought I,
These all are lovers, followers of one flame,
Their day how brief, how glad, they fear no night!

115

IN CRICKET-LAND

FROM ST. BEATENBERG TO INTERLAKEN

On that beguiling forest-road that leads
The upland shepherd to the mid-lake town,
Rapt by the double view, I sat me down
Where Oberland's three glorious mountain-heads
Shone snowy white among the firs; thence meads
Sloped to a sapphire flood with cliffs grey-brown
Beside the hermit's cavern, and grass unmown
Was flecked with daisies, hawkweed, sorrel-seeds.

And there was wondrous chirping in the grass,
And every living emerald that had wings,
And every idle creature that had breath
Seemed there in gay processional to pass,
Saying, ‘In Heaven above, on earth beneath,
The gladdest place is where the cricket sings.’

116

THE GENTIANELLA (GENTIANA VERNA)

ST. BEATENBERG

Upon that ‘Hill of him God blessed’ all dew
Leapt into varied blossom, all the light
Took living form and colour infinite;
But 'mid the multitude of flowers that grew
I noted one of most ethereal hue,
Of starry form and dazzling to the sight,
So full of blue as just to need the white,
And white enough to make one feel the blue.

It was a flower the chalet children call
‘Heaven's-bloom’; no scent of fragrant breath it had,
But to its starry petals there was given
The quintessential radiance sucked from all
Blue skies and lakes that ever made earth glad—
It seemed, in truth, a messenger from Heaven!

117

AFTER A STORM AT KANZELI

ST. BEATENBERG

Beneath high Kanzeli's towers of silver-grey
We saw the sudden rainbow like a wreath
Of softest filmy blossom, flung beneath,
And colour flashed from every diamond spray.
We cried—‘Has earth more heavenly-born display
To call the wanderer upward? can the breath
Of storm a show more prodigal bequeath
To ease this wild, impracticable way?’

For ne'er on lawns of gladder green and gold
Gleamed the bronze huts above us on the height,
Nor lovelier through dim veils of sapphire mist
Rose rampart walls of gleaming amethyst,
Nor sweetlier leapt the valleys back to light,
Nor swiftlier were the gates of Heaven unrolled.

118

A SERMON IN THE CHURCH AT ST. BEATENBERG

They sat with withered cheeks on withered hands,
O'er wrinkled brows the dark lace-veiling fell,
With reverent gaze they heard the preacher tell
In simple words God's love and God's commands.
Weary with toil upon their stubborn lands,
They learned that where the blessèd ones shall dwell
Are living waters from a springing well,
Where alway Christ the Water-giver stands.

To willing ears the parable went home,
Willing as his to whom was promise given,
‘This day shalt thou find rest in Paradise,’
And I could see that tears were in their eyes
To think a day of rest should ever come
When they should drink the painless streams of Heaven.

119

AT KANZELI

ABOVE ST. BEATENBERG

Lord, what a pulpit is this seat of Thine!
Here canst Thou speak a word to every nation,
Bidding them bring a soul of adoration,
And cast their hearts in worship at Thy shrine.
But if they come not, snowy mountains shine,
Blue lake and sky and wondrous vegetation,
These give Thee glory, and for congregation
Thou hast Thy silent multitude of pine.

These hear and these obey Thee; mortal men
Hearing obey not; ceaselessly the fountains
Sing to Thee psalms, the forest claps its hands,
The cattle roving in their tinkling bands
Chime to the chorus, and from far-off mountains
The falling avalanche thunders an Amen.

120

THE BIRENFLUH

ST. BEATENBERG

I never pass this towery, bastioned hill,
That looks upon the hollow gorge, where flow
The sounding streams of Gemmenalphorn's snow
To bless the vale and turn the water-mill,
Without a thought how patient and how still
Stand the dark firs in their embattled row
Of ceaseless watch—how stubbornly they grow,
What soldier bearing, what enduring will!

The drums of Heaven for battle roll afar,
The storm-winds blow their trumpets, and the stream
Leaps its fierce horses foaming from the steep;
But these dark sentinels—they only seem
With closer front a sterner guard to keep,
Sworn to obey one Lord in peace and war.

121

AT AMISBUHL

ST. BEATENBERG

Oft in the dreary flats of common care,
Fordone by heat of work and cloud of pain,
The hills I climbed, I climb in thought again,
And feel wide sun and breathe calm crystal air.
Below me lies some lake of azure fair
Dappled by cloud, or grey with drift of rain,
Snows shine above a mountain-girdled plain,
And white falls flash with rainbows in their hair.

Then while the castled town asleep is laid,
On Rabenfluh I breathe the pine-tree balm,
Or when the mid-mere valley in the heat
Is throbbing, rest on Heimweh's woody seat,
Or here while Abendberg is gathering shade
Feel Amisbuhl's incomparable calm.

122

COWBELLS ON THE RISCHEREN ALP

AMISBUHL, BEATENBERG

High o'er the plain where Aar's green waters make
A girdle of perpetual hyaline,
When bees are murmuring at the cups of wine
The plane-flowers bring them, oft my rest I take,
Lulled by that sound which cures all ears that ache,
Sound of the bells with which the feeding kine
Charm the soft air to assonance divine,
And far and near their blessed joyaunce shake.

Lo! as I listen, words of peace and strife,
Of joy, of calm, of labour, and of prayer
Run to harmonious concord; I can tell
Here chinks the forge, the bugle echoes there,
Here sounds the band, glad peals for man and wife
Ring, and for praise the deep cathedral bell.

123

DOWN THE LAKE TO THUN

We heard the holy hermit's sounding rill,
Passed Spietz's castle-cluster, snowy-white
Against the purple Niesen, caught the light,—
Gleam after rain—on craggy Sygriswyl,
We scented Gonten's laurels, gazed our fill
At towery Oberhofen, full in sight
Of Blümlis' snowy splendour saw the night
Of storm round Stockhorn, felt the thunder's thrill.

But not till Aar between its brakes and bowers
Bare us with rapturous haste toward the town,
And terraced roofs and church and castle-hold
From heights of quiet graciousness looked down,
We knew old Thun's hereditary power
To charm us with the life of centuries old.

124

AT THE CHURCH GATE, OBERHOFEN

Beneath their open canopy of brown
The bells had ceased to call to morning prayer,
And climbing up the Oberhofen stair,
There in the churchyard court I sat me down.
The preacher passing eyed me with a frown,
‘Why linger, friend?—the faithful enter there.’
I answered, ‘Here the blackbird's hymn is rare,
These chestnut flowers might weave an angel's crown!’

For all the bees that ever hummed above
Had made within that leafy choir of shade
An organ murmuring out an anthem's tone;
The pastor preached, the people sang and prayed,
I felt with bees that prayer and work were one,
With flower and bird that praise is life and love.

125

IN THE BAUMGARTEN

AT THUN

Green sapphire rolls the Aar beneath our feet,
And pine-clad Grüsisberg, where ravens call,
Rises behind, a sheltering mountain-wall;
Tall poplars gird us; from the garden-seat
We hear all birds that ever made air sweet
Sing through the day; all flowers are ours, and all
Delicious orchard-scents upon us fall,
And butterflies float in on our retreat
With noiseless beauty; lizards bask and run,
A fountain flashes silver; o'er our rest
The red-roofed Castle of the Counts of Thun
Looks down to give protection to the guest,
And, through the pear-trees snow-white in the sun,
A church-bell chimes to bid each hour be blest.

126

THE TOMBSTONE OF HEINRICH VON STRATTLINGEN, THE BARD

IN THE BÄCHIHÖLZI, THUN

Here lies the knightly bard; his head is bare,
His feet are on the lion, and his shield
Shows the barbed arrow; gauntleted and steeled,
His hands are closed and lifted as in prayer:
So during life was reverence his care,
So to the beast in man he would not yield,
But Orpheus-like he tamed him, so a-field
Honour he won with his song-arrows rare.

Still, in the old-world singer's sure retreat,
Where lake, and lawn, and snowy height combined
Rouse dullest hearts to passion, thought is sweet,
We feel the breathings of a master mind.
Death drove the Poet from his garden-seat,
But left the soul of all his song behind.

In a wood near Thun, called the Bächihölzi, within sight of the Chartreuse, which it is believed that the poet built in the thirteenth century, lies, beneath the shadow of an oak, the tombstone of Heinrich von Strattlingen, the bard. The knight is clad in mail; he is bareheaded; his hands are raised in prayer; his feet are on a lion, and an arrow is engraved upon his shield.

127

ON THE INSCRIPTION OVER THE DOORWAY OF THE OLD SCHLOSS AT THE BAUMGARTEN, THUN

‘INVENI PORTUM, SPES ET FORTUNA VALETE’

‘Harbour at last! hope, fortune, fare ye well!’
For I am tired of wandering, and the star
By which I steered in quest of hope afar
Has set, the waves at morn with ceaseless swell
Sank not, but rose to storm as night-time fell,
And beating landwards, where the quicksands are,
I for the pilot call across the bar,
And steer towards the haven-citadel.

Yet neither song of bird in Maytide bower,
Nor blossoming orchard, nor rich lilac scent,
Nor gold laburnum dropping at the door,
Can soothe my soul with such prevailing power
As finding here what poorest of the poor
May feel—the joy of heaven and earth—Content.

128

AT THE MINNESINGER'S SEAT ABOVE CHARTREUSE

THUN

We may not watch thee sitting in the shade
In front of Blümlis and its purple shore,
Far-seeing fancy cannot quite restore
The knightly form that here his ballads made;
Yet, Minnesinger! mightily to aid
Come the sweet presences that came of yore,
The merry cricket chirping at his door,
The gossamer rainbows flashed from blade to blade.

One sweeter presence in this beechen grove
You left, we hear it in the cuckoo's call,
We see her bending o'er the blackbird's nest,
The flowers come with her still for festival,
She is a form more beauteous than the rest,
Where all is beauty, and her name is Love!

129

IN THUN CHURCHYARD

AT SERVICE-TIME

Friends! I a dead man laid upon this hill:
If I could hear the great bell's hollow sound
Call to the town that Sabbath had come round,
Then feet move near, then silence deep, until
The anthem floated o'er me and the thrill
Of that sweet blackbird touched me in my swound,
I should leap forth with joyance from the ground
And join the congregation with good will.

For in this grave there is no voice of praise,
No hint of melody, no hope of song;
The heart is dust, lips dry, and ears are dull;
While yonder hills to which your eyes ye raise—
Yon brimming river blue and beautiful,
From height to depth man's hymn of praise prolong.

130

AT THE CASTLE, THUN

I—sitting here above the quiet town,
Whose only voice was gently murmuring Aar,
While near, the sweet narcissus with its star
Shone through the shade, and tulip-banners flown
Marshalled the flowers—heardsudden trumpets blown,
Saw men from forth the turrets gaze afar,
Felt once again the dreadfulness of war,
And heard the stern portcullis rattle down.

But at a voice the vision seemed to cease,
A child laughed out, a mother at her door
Talked to her babe, then left it in the sun
To tend her flowers,—the time had sure begun
When God should give earth's castles to the poor,
To plant their walls with happiness and peace.

131

ON FINDING A SWIFT IN THE CASTLE PRISON AT THUN

You of the soft grey throat and ebon wing,
Was it the soul of sympathy and grace
For these poor mortals in their piteous case,
That thus aside your freedom you dared fling,
Your joy of flight beyond imagining—
Gave up the fierce excitement of your race,
And lonely in this lamentable place,
Here to dumb walls a speechless prisoner cling?

Or have you come into this hall of doom
With message of a wider Heaven above,
From Him who only breaks the prison bars,
On solid earth or in the trembling stars,
For all whose feet are set in narrow room,
Who gives us freedom when He grants us Love?

132

AT THE RABENFLUH

THUN

God sent them sun, and since they loved the light
Straight up for Heaven obediently they grew;
God sent them storm, and, tried in every thew,
Yea, even with pain, they waxed by day and night.
And there they stood broad-based upon the height,
A silent, uncommunicative crew,
Till the clouds gathered and the lightning flew,
Then all sang loud together in their might.

And wandering through that solemn-hearted wood,
As in some vast cathedral, on the hill,
I heard soft organ music, angel speech,
Saying, ‘Thrice blest is human brotherhood,
Where each unjealous seeks the sun, and each
Strong for the storm can commune or be still.’

133

AT THE SCHWABIS

THUN

Beyond the walls that Berchtold's chivalry
Built up against Burgundian hate and pride,
Rolls the blue Aar in swift impetuous tide
To meet all foes with exultation free;
And whosoe'er its careless strength may see
Takes heart, and ceases to be satisfied
With his world's narrow limit, goes outside
His city walls against all foes that be.

Sure of its course, the river, rolled along,
Slides down, and shakes its thousand plumes of snow,
And curved to sapphire, thunders at the fall:
So the brave heart beyond the city wall,
If but life's continuity it know—
Its whence, its whither—falls, but still is strong.

134

THE GOLDEN STAR OF THUN

Brave little town! the rushing stream that makes
Its murmur round thine island-homes, from far
Brings echo of the elements of war,
Crashing of avalanche, roar of ice that breaks
Beneath the arrows of the sun, who shakes
Whole mountains into nothing; but thy star
That shines on castle-steep and rolling Aar,
From red-hot streams of blood its glory takes.

And still in memory of the days when Thun
Broke the Burgundian host and made it reel,
Upon thy plains we hear the echoing gun,
We watch the squadrons march, the horses wheel,
And see each week thy lads together run
To hurl the horn-winged bolt from bows of steel.

The Golden Star of Thun was won as follows:—In the battle of Morat, 1476, the post of honour against the Burgundian nobles and Charles the Bold was held by the townsmen of Thun. In consequence of their valour on that occasion Berne offered the town ten years' exemption from taxes, or the privilege of changing their black star into gold on their banner and civic armorial bearings. They chose the latter.

135

THE STOCKHORN

DEO CREATORI

This is the purple throne whereon the day
First takes her seat and latest leaves her crown,
And when she lays her rosy mantle down,
Here first with starry sceptre night holds sway.
Snow-clad, or in the ermine of the May,
Its splendour haunts the valley and the town,
Whether beneath the thunder-clouds it frown,
Or in the summer sun shines silver-gray.

But on this day of glory and of love,
When smiles the plain beneath the mountain-walls,
And laughs blue lake and blossoming rivershore,
One sitteth on the throne all kings above,
Who raised the Stockhorn, and for ever calls
The heart of man to honour and adore.

136

THE JUDGMENT PICTURE AT ADELBODEN

In that high vale where winter stays too long
Kept by the hills' encircling rampart wall,
Mist-hidden ever moaned the waterfall;
No cowbell chimed, I heard no sweet bird's song:
From mountains wreathed with storm, a ghastly throng
Into a boiling caldron seemed to fall,
And clouds, like souls in pain that could not call,
Writhed in and out the darkened pines among.

I could not wonder by the church's door,
Beneath the great age-blasted sycamore,
Man should have set the terrible Day of Doom,—
For how can hearts in utter sunlessness
Believe a fuller light will heal and bless,
And Love shall shine beyond the Judgment gloom?

137

THE VILLAGE DANCE AT ADELBODEN

A SAD FACE

It was the ending of the Sabbath Day—
God's gift to man of restfulness and cheer—
And glad from all the village chalets near
Met men and maids. All hearts but one were gay:
The players played, the dancers danced away,
To-morrow to the Alp for half a year
The lovers go, the loved ones linger here,
And many a swain some last fond word will say.

There in the village inn's low-ceilèd room
The feet incessant beat the earthen floor;
Some sang an unpremeditated strain,
But one sad face sat silent in the gloom—
She could not meet to-night her love again,
He would not seek at morn the upland moor.

138

THE BEAR HOTEL

KANDERSTEG

At foot of that gigantic mountain stair,
Straight to thy threshold all the paths incline,
And thou with song of waters, scent of pine,
Canst ease poor wandering mortals of their care.
With kind arms right across the path, and air
Of courteous greeting, generous design,
What homely hospitalities are thine,
What chance to welcome angels unaware!

Type of the wise and good, to whom is given
The glory of a sure-appointed place,
For help to others o'er the desolate hills,
Who greet us with unutterable grace,
Comfort the weary, and confirm the wills
Of those whose souls still hesitate for Heaven.

139

IN GASTERN-THAL

KANDERSTEG

Stunned by the fierce, reverberating sound
Of Kander roaring through his rocky walls
With thunder of ten thousand waterfalls,
I passed to wondrous quietude, and found
Where Rest had girt his mountains all around;
There the streams speak not, and the sun that calls
The noiseless shadows from their saffron halls,
All day shines silent on the meadowy ground.

And in the midst, by some earth-giant hurled,
A ‘stone of help’ for Thought, the preacher stands,
He cries aloud to bid men come apart,
And they who listen lose the troubled heart—
They never quite come back into the world,
Or if they come, Peace holds them by the hands.

140

ON THE GEMMI ROAD ABOVE GASTERN-THAL

The song was heard, the singer he was hid,
As there I listened to the organ-tone,
Where the ten thousand waters joined in one
With joyful chorus down to Gastern slid;
O how their Hallelujahs shamed and chid
My songless heart! when that great glory shone,
Like to His face that none may look upon,
The sunlit snow of Altel's pyramid.

But as I listened to that mellow flood,
I felt my soul with ecstasy new born,
And heard a voice from Heaven, which seemed to say,
For praise arose the mighty Doldenhorn,
For praise the vale was hollowed on the day
God gazed upon the work and called it good.

141

WAYFARERS ON THE GEMMI

IN THE ALP-SPITAL-MATTE

I met a traveller in a desert place:
I said, ‘I speak because I am a man;
These circling cliffs are dumb since time began,
They stand for ever speechless face to face—
Yea, even the torrent hushes in this place;
Noiseless as air yon startled chamois ran,
These flowers about our feet live out their span,
Then die into the ground, a silent race.’

And so we stood and communed for a while,
He from the Rhone, and I from Kander come;
We shall not meet until that other land,
But I remember how he grasped my hand,
How sad eyes flashed, and wan lips seemed to smile
To hear again the accents of his home.

142

BLANC-SEE AND DAUBENSEE

GEMMI

There is a pool whose waters would beguile
Men to dive down, yea, even till they die,
In liquid depths of lapis lazuli,
With coral wonders and with rainbow wile;
Not far from thence a lake that cannot smile,
A hungry lake with livid lips doth lie,
With face death-pale beneath the sunniest sky,
And glance as cruel as a crocodile.

Death! Death! or coming swift, or coming slow,
Come not with sweet, delicious guise of cheer,
With rainbow hope of mere escape from ill;
Rather with barrenness and wreathèd snow,
That tells the summit of the pass is near,
And the great vision soon shall life fulfil.

143

AT THE SIGN OF THE WILDSTRUBEL

ON THE GEMMI

They had the hearts of eagles, they who dared
On this tremendous precipice to build.
What muttering thunder meant, what lightning willed,
They knew; the winds with them their secrets shared,
Their souls were more than mortal, and they cared
For more than mortal vision; here they filled
Their hearts with peace, where all man's noise is stilled,
Their eyes with revelations God-declared.

And here they dwelt, good angels of the steep,
Between the evening and the morning light
That flushes all the Pennine peaks with rose;
Large-hearted givers of rest and food and sleep,
With words of comfortable cheer for those
Who through dumb solitudes have climbed the height.

144

THE DAUBENHORN CLIFFS

OVER THE GEMMI

How the bones grew to frame our dædal earth,
When in the womb of Ocean and old Time
These hills were fashioned, how a furious prime
Of tidal deluge carved this headland firth—
This is thy message,—not the conjurer's mirth
That mocks the merry shepherds as they climb
Up the steep zigzags, with false echo's chime:
Thine is the mystery of the mountain's birth.

And we who dare descend the Daubenhorn
Like goats, by perilous path and jutting edge,
Round bastion-walls that fail beneath our feet,
May scare the eagle from his mountain ledge;
We cannot move from her imperial seat
The awful secret of Creation's morn.

145

GOING TO ZERMATT

We leave the dusty vines, the poplared plain,
And, prisoners to the imperious god of steam,
Pant up the vale that changes as in dream,
Climb slow the iron stairway, in our pain
Groan through the gorges, shriek and plunge amain
Through rock, o'er river; now well-nigh we seem
To hang in air, and feel the milk-white stream
Breathe in our face, as onward still we strain.

St. Nikolas' silver-turbaned spire is passed,
Above our heads strange snowy summits peep,
And glaciers frown from off their mountain walls;
Still upward irresistibly we creep,
Till, with a sudden glory that appals,
The Matterhorn leaps high—Zermatt at last!

146

THE MATTERHORN

When through the huts, by sun and frost embrowned,
—Those square toy-boxes for some giant's play—
Where Zermatt shepherds lie, I took my way,
And still the Triftbach followed me with sound,
Suddenly face to face from out the ground
Sprang into middle heaven, grim and gray,
The Matterhorn's huge spire, which seemed to say,
I am the Alps' avenger, and I wound.

But the huge falchion shone so gaily bright,
And from its hilt streamed forth so soft a cloud
To fling its rosy banner far beneath,
I heard no sound of women wailing loud
Because on hearth and home had fallen the night,
Nor that fierce mountain's trumpet-note of death.

147

THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS

AT THE SCHWARZ-SEE, ZERMATT

By the dark lake beside sad Hörnli laid
There stands a little solitary shrine,
Raised by rude hands of men who tend the kine,
In simple love laboriously made;
And there the herdsman may implore the aid
Of Her whose presence pure as snow can shine,
Infrequent priests may offer rites divine,
And pilgrim prayers and litanies be said.

Thereover Cervin casts a shadow prone,
And thither, overshadowed by great loss,
The heart that in its silence pain must bear
May come, and feel uplifted by the cross,
Know in the wilderness a Saviour near,
And in the desert dare to be alone.

148

HÔTEL DU PARC ET DES BELLES FLEURS

LAC DE CHAN, MONTANA

We left the vale where Rhone's grey waters flow,
Past sun-baked mounds and ruined castle halls,
Hot cliffs scored deep with waterless waterfalls,
And striped with burning harvest far below,
Up through the dusty vineyards, toiling slow,
Up through the forest where no songbird calls,
Up till the Weisshorn over mountain walls
Gleamed, and Valaisian Alps shone all aglow;

And there we found fair meadows dewy cool,
A rolling park where stately fir-trees stand,
Music in storm, and fragrance in the heat;
Where lilies lit the lawn and starred the pool,
And every flower that blooms in Switzerland
Seemed to fling jewels at the wanderer's feet.

149

GOING TO NETTLESHIP'S GRAVE

FROM ARGENTIÈRE TO CHAMOUNIX, BY NIGHT

I need no surer, sympathetic guide,
Than this loud stream with waters icy cold,
Down with perpetual thunder darkly rolled,
Beneath a starless heaven at my side—
For somewhere in this valley, he who died,
Caught by the sudden snow-blast's withering hold,
Lies beyond storm in quiet churchyard mould,
Beneath the heights he climbed, dear friend, well tried.

Flow on, pale Arve, with lamentation flow!
Joined with thy gray-haired sister of the snow,
Make double moan and fill the air with sorrow:
I have no heart nor care to lift mine eyes
To find the sunlit glacier's glad surprise,
Or face the mountain splendours of to-morrow.

150

TO R. L. NETTLESHIP

IN CHAMOUNIX CHURCHYARD

If you should be awakened from your sleep,
Here in this snow-crowned, mountain-girdled vale,
Such sounds should greet your ear as could not fail
To lull you back into a slumber deep:
The chime of waters falling from the steep,
The bells that clang towards the milking-pail,
Murmur of bees and song of nightingale,
Where through the copse those sister rivers sweep.

But if one voice should mingle with the sound—
A voice you knew in college days of old—
Crying, ‘Come back, fulfil your earthly span!’
I know your words would leap from underground,
And say, ‘God hath His helpers manifold,
Their hands shall finish what my heart began.’

Richard Lewis Nettleship, Fellow o f Balliol, perished in a snowstorm on Mont Blanc, August 25, 1892 (B. Jowett's College Sermons, p. 264).

151

VIOLAS ON THE COL DE BALME

When under Jaman's peak I sudden found
The slopes with white narcissus overspread,
No lovelier carpet for the Spring, I said,
Was ever laid on any mountain ground.
I did not know what charm the cowbell's sound
On Col de Balme for her imperial tread
Could work, to wake the rock-rose in its bed,
Or stir the violet from its winter swound.

For here when May is hand in hand with June,
And the shy soldanella shrinks away,
The fragrant earth shines purple, mixed with gold;
The oldest heart would quicken and be gay,
The saddest voice would sing again in tune,
Such garniture of glory to behold!

152

MOONLIGHT AT PENSION REITZEL

LEYSIN

Beside the sloping road that curves and shines,
A silver serpent on from field to field,
There stands a chalet, where all woes are healed
That need the sunlight, and when day declines
And the rose gleam of eve incarnadines
The peak of Chamossaire, there is unsealed
A dewy balm Arabia could not yield,
Breathed from the fragrant multitude of pines.

Sweet house of health for weary mortals planned,
What witchery haunts thee, when the purple vale
Is filled with shadow by Rionda thrown,
And we behold in some enchanted land
Of magic gleam, the Dent du Midi pale—
A phantom presence o'er the moonlit Rhone.

153

A FEAR FOR LEYSIN

THE BUILDING OF THE CASINO

Close round its silver spire the village cowers,
Each brown house spreads its wings as if it heard
The cry in heaven from some gigantic bird,
Told of in old Arabian midnight hours;
Yet all was sun, from Dent du Midi's towers
To those high pines no other voices stirred
Than the grey cricket chirring, as he chirred
Last year, among his groves of innocent flowers.

But as I gazed, up rose the purple dome
Of some huge pleasure-palace idly planned,
To dull the sense of time with dice and gold;
I felt the fear for every cottage home,
When indolence should poisonous wealth command,
And Leysin lose the simple life of old.

154

UP LA RIONDA

LEYSIN

Up through the pines with rosy fruitage set,
Through air made fragrant with the dust of gold
I climbed, that world of wonder to behold:
Southward, in bluest air that knew no fret,
The Dent du Midi's snow-plumed coronet
Shone peaceful, valleys purpled fold on fold,
Whilst north, the Rhone by town and tower was rolled
Till lake and stream in one great glory met.

Eyes ne'er had seen such beauteous mountain state,
Vale after vale by fancy was explored,
Height after height to rapturous gaze was given,
But my sad heart was at the river gate,
Where Rhone with all her valley's splendour poured
To lose her sorrow in a tranquil Heaven.

155

TWILIGHT AT LA PRAFONDAZ

LEYSIN

Come not at morn, when beautiful and bare,
Rose-pink with all her meadows, all her vines,
The Dent du Midi's marvellous splendour shines,
Nor when on La Rionda's rocky stair
The noon with flowers and butterflies is fair,—
Come rather when the lingering day declines,
And the grey mist is breathed from out the pines,
And one star lights the dewy-purple air.

Then say if earth from any mountain steep
Can soothe with gentler calm the troubled breast,
Or bring to aching hearts a surer boon,
When vale and hill and river seem asleep,
And to far shores of blissfulness and rest
The long lake gleams beneath a rising moon.

156

HOME THOUGHTS AT SUNSET

FROM PRAFONDAZ, LEYSIN

From Dent du Midi fades her roseate hue,
Leman's rare witchery can no more prolong
The mirrored daylight; pale Rhone moves among
Dim fields and mountain walls of solid blue;
The last sweet bird is silent, but for you
The thrush shall fill another hour with song;
The sun with you is shining, here a throng
Of angel presences, the stars, peep through.

The lingering glory of the sunset bars
O'er Jura's range has passed upon its way,
But brightens over England: which were best,
Eyes held on Earth by still unended day,
Or hearts caught up to commune with the stars—
A longer waking, or an earlier rest?

157

ALPINE ANEMONE-SEED

LEYSIN

In latest June, when giant gentians bold
Unhood themselves and break to sudden flower,
Manning the galleries of each sturdy tower
With saffron-starry shields and spikes of gold,
I wandering found a wonder to behold,
A tufted thing that wove a silken bower
For fairies, frightened by a summer shower,
Or tender sprites that feared the dewy cold.

Anon it seemed a humming-bird's soft nest,
Anon a living sea-flower, such as grow
In tropic waters when the waves are still;
I knew not, in its silken seed-coat drest,
The May's most lovely daughter of the hill,
The wind-flower with its petals white as snow.

158

THE MORNING PLAY AT VILLARS

Here in this amphitheatre of wood,
Upon the sloping stage of flowery land,
Where the dark firs like hushed spectators stand,
Each morn, with night-time's starry interlude,
A drama is enacted.—First a flood
Of roselight fills the west, then gaunt and grand
The Muveran reaches out a shadowy hand,
The Dent du Midi feels her brotherhood
Of snowy peaks enkindled: then she shines,
Takes her gold crown and drops her veil of gray,
And while the villages from forth the mist
Sparkle to life, Val D'Illier through her vines
Draws sunlight mixed with purple amethyst,
As loud with music Dawn begins the play.

159

ON CHAMOSSAIRE

Mist wrapped the Jura, like an ocean bay
The gray lake waters rippled into light;
Northward the sun smote Leysin's towering height,
And south Mont Blanc in snowy splendour lay;
Beyond a sea of mountain blue and gray
The Weisshorn rose, the Bernese peaks were bright,
And drawing purple glory, golden light,
From every vale, the long Rhone held its way.

Soul, thou must climb the hills, drink upper air,
Stand near to Heaven, or thou canst never know
What towering presences around thee wait,
More than the labourer in the plain below,
Whose eyes have never seen what mountain state
The Dawn reveals on grassy Chamossaire.

160

IN THE DUNGEON AT CHILLON

I passed through Chillon's heavy prison door—
For those who entered there all hope was vain;
The air was pale with centuries of pain,
The light lay ghastly green on vault and floor.
Methought men wan, and, save for patience, poor,
At every pitiless pillar clanked a chain,
Paced their one step, and then repaced again,
And so to softness even hard earth wore.

What hand, I cried, can give these liberty?
Guides led me to a dark, unvaulted room,
Showed me in living rock a bed aslope,
And o'er, a rafter and a swaying rope:
Here did they sleep the night before their doom,
And they slept well, for Death would set them free.

161

AT WEISSENSTEIN

SOLEURE

Here, at the high-built, hospitable grange,
Grey with long years, and, as the old are, kind,
There is such health in every passing wind,
We feel new powers of life, invigorate, strange;
Our eyes look out with more than mortal range
Over blue miles of fruitfulness, and find
Eden fresh-breathed from the Almighty mind,
With that old serpent going through his change.

Then as from coiling Aar our gaze is caught
To those far hills of pure unearthly glory
That lean upon the lilac, cloud-built wall,
We seem to hear again the old-world story
Of Paradise, the Serpent, and the Fall,
And Heaven's new Eden lovelier than all thought.

162

SWITZERLAND, FAREWELL!

Farewell the Schreckhorn's silver spires! Farewell
The Blumlis' domes and pinnacles of snow!
By vine-clad Spietz and Gonten's lawns we go,
We leave behind Thun's ancient citadel,
Sun-bright against its pines; but still the spell
Of emerald Aar will follow with its flow,
And still to backward gaze, with flush aglow
The Oberland its evening tale will tell.

Others may climb the peaks high-crowned with flowers,
—Blue gentian, sulphur-pale anemone,
For other eyes the alpine-rose may shine,
Others may hear the music of the kine,
The thunder of the glacier's breaking sea,—
Remembrance ineffaceable is ours.

163

HOME FROM LOMBARDY

Better grey lakes, grey mountain, and grey skies,
With song of water-brooks and sound of rain,
Than that immeasurable Lombard plain—
For all its vines and corn and mulberries—
Sunburnt to silence: with what sweet surprise
The mellow ouzel greets us once again!
Clear and familiar from the springing grain,
With what a sense of home the corncrake cries!

But not the cry of crake, nor throstle's tune,
Nor daisied fields, nor plumy laurel-bowers
That gleam snow-white at evening's long-lit close,
So made me sure of Cumberland and June,
As Crosthwaite lanes full-breathed of elder-flowers,
And hedges broidered over with wild rose.