The bridge that springs from rock to rock,

And trembles to the torrent's shock?

The fearful pass, whose cliffs between
A line of sky is scarcely seen?
The liquid crystal of the rill

That gushes from the rocky hill?

The inland sea, now calm in sleep,
Now, waken'd, an o'erwhelming deep?
Here first, long since, at your request,
I came, and found delight and rest;
And now with joy my o'er-travell'd feet,
Return to this belov'd Retreat:

Where, on the loud, tumultuous RHONE
From dawn to dark I muse alone;
Or listen to the vesper-bell

Echoing through many a craggy dell:

Or, as the soft green lawn I tread,
While chestnuts flower above my head,

The far-off LEMAN LAKE descry,

Fair mirror of the changeful sky!

Now silvery-smooth, now sparkling gold: Or, o'er the humbler Alps, behold

Those glowing Peaks that long detain
The sun's last rays, tho' dark the Plain,
Then, pale and wan in the cold night-air,
Look like the ghosts of what they were:
Or mark with awe the mouldering towers,
That tell of long-departed hours;

The cliffs that guard the little gate;

Frail barrier between State and State !

More charm'd from hour to hour-and yet

With far more pleasure than regret, Homeward at length my steps I turn; My eyes for other objects yearn; The fire-side circle, small and dear, Narrowing, ah narrowing every year! The chosen, or the neighbour-friend, The servant pleas'd and proud to attend; The well-known door, and even the bed, On which, so oft reclined, my head Sweet rest has found, or vainly sought Through the long night of troubled thought. How slowly, eager to arrive,

I think the dull postilions drive!

The leagues seem longer, and the pavé Is surely grown more rough and heavy. Yet haply 'tis in vain I haste,

Doom'd, as before, whole days to waste
Pacing till night on Calais-pier,

Invoking winds that will not hear;
While not a packet dares to sail,
Aw'd by the equinoctial gale;

Still looking o'er to that white shore
Where I so long to tread once more.
E'en now in thought I spring to land,
And grasp o'erjoy'd a brother's hand.

VIII.-EPISTLE TO A FRIEND AT HIS VILLA.

CHAMOUNY, 1823.

Ar length you fly from smoke and noise,
To wholesome air and tranquil joys,

From Rout and Ball, from Park and Play,
(Day turn'd to night, and night to day,)
To cheerful rides at morning-hours,
And evening-walks 'mid shrubs and flowers,
Where broad, and bright, the stately Thames
From the charm'd guest due homage claims;
As o'er its wave the white sail glides,

Or the swift steam-boat stems the tides.

But ah! the Town diffuses far

Its gloomy atmosphere of care;

The murmurs of its strife assail

The peace of each surrounding vale:

O'er many a mile must toil the feet

That seek an undisturb'd retreat:

Its pride and vanity are wont
The meek and humble to affront,
And, though forbidden to oppress,
To make them think their little less.

But you, who all its stores command,
Yet its temptations can withstand,
Its pleasures quit without regret,

And quickly all its cares forget.
More timorous I for safety run,

And wisely the rough conflict shun.

Once more amid th' eternal snows

The frozen Alps around me close, Though flames the summer-sun on high, Just seen athwart the narrow sky;

The beam of fire, the whelming rain,

Beat on these ice-built rocks in vain :

For reconciled the Seasons here

Dance hand in hand throughout the year.

In this disorder, these extremes,

As if in sport wild Nature seems