VII.

IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE.

O FOR the help of Angels to complete
This Temple-Angels governed by a plan
How gloriously pursued by daring Man,
Studious that He might not disdain the seat
Who dwells in Heaven! But that inspiring heat
Hath failed; and now, ye Powers! whose gorgeous wings
And splendid aspect yon emblazonings

But faintly picture, 'twere an office meet
For you, on these unfinished Shafts to try
The midnight virtues of your harmony: —
This vast Design might tempt you to repeat
Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground
Immortal Fabrics.
rising to the sound
Of penetrating harps and voices sweet!

VIII.

—IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE.

· AMID this dance of objects sadness steals

O'er the defrauded heart while sweeping by,

As in a fit of Thespian jollity,

Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels:
Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels

The venerable pageantry of Time,

Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime,

And what the Dell unwillingly reveals

Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied

Near the bright River's edge.

Yet why repine?

Pedestrian liberty shall yet be mine

To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze:

Freedom which youth with copious hand supplied,
May in fit measure bless my later days.

IX.

HYMN,

FOR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH THE RAPIDS, UNDER
THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG.

JESU! bless our slender Boat,
By the current swept along;
Loud its threatenings — let them not

Drown the music of a Song

Breathed thy mercy to implore,

Where these troubled waters roar!

Saviour, in thy image, seen

Bleeding on that precious Rood;
If, while through the meadows green
Gently wound the peaceful flood,
We forgot Thee, do not Thou
Disregard thy Suppliants now!

Hither, like yon ancient Tower
Watching o'er the River's bed,
Fling the shadow of thy power,

Else we sleep among the Dead ;
Thou who trodd'st the billowy Sea,
Shield us in our jeopardy!

Guide our Bark among the waves;

Through the rocks our passage smooth;
Where the whirlpool frets and raves
Let thy love its anger soothe:
All our hope is placed in Thee;
Miserere Domine!*

X.

THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE.

Nor, like his great compeers, indignantly
Doth DANUBE spring to life!* The wandering Stream
(Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's gleam
Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee

Slips from his prison walls: and Fancy, free
To follow in his track of silver light,
Reaches, with one brief moment's rapid flight,
The vast Encincture of that gloomy sea
Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to meet
In conflict; whose rough winds forgot their jars
To waft the heroic progeny of Greece,

When the first Ship sailed for the golden Fleece,
ARGO, exalted for that daring feat

To bear in heaven her shape distinct with stars.

* See note.

XI.

MEMORIAL,

NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF THUN.

"DEM

ANDENKEN

MEINES FREUNDES

ALOYS REDING

MDCCCXVIII.”

Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was Captain General of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the flagitious and too successful attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate their country.

AROUND a wild and woody hill

A gravelled pathway treading,

We reached a votive Stone that bears

The name of Aloys Reding.

Well judged the Friend who placed it there

For silence and protection,

And haply with a finer care

Of dutiful affection.

The Sun regards it from the West,

Sinking in summer glory;

And, while he sinks, affords a type

Of that pathetic story.

And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss

Amid the grove to linger;

Till all is dim, save this bright Stone
Touched by his golden finger.

XII.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS OF SWITZERLAND.

O LIFE! without thy chequered scene
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe,
Success and failure, could a ground
For magnanimity be found?

For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene?
Or whence could virtue flow?

Yet are we doomed our native dust
To wet with many a fruitless shower,
And ill it suits us to disdain

The Altar, to deride the Fane,

Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust
To win a happier hour.

I love, where spreads the village lawn,
Upon some knee-worn Cell to gaze;
Hail to the firm unmoving Cross,
Aloft, where pines their branches toss!
And to the Chapel far withdrawn,
That lurks by lonely ways!

Where'er we roam-along the brink
Of Rhine- or by the sweeping Po,
Through Alpine vale, or champain wide,
Whate'er we look on, at our side

Be Charity! to bid us think,

And feel, if we would know.