Elegiac Stanzas

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, From the dread summit of the Queen Of mountains, through a deep ravine, Where, in her holy chapel, dwells "Our Lady of the Snow." The sky was blue, the air was mild; Free were the streams and green the bowers; As if, to rough assaults unknown, The genial spot had 'ever' shown A countenance that as sweetly smiled-- The face of summer-hours. And we were gay, our hearts at ease; With pleasure dancing through the frame We journeyed; all we knew of care-- Our path that straggled here and there; Of trouble--but the fluttering breeze; Of Winter--but a name. If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days--but hush--no more! Calm is the grave, and calmer none Than that to which thy cares are gone, Thou Victim of the stormy gale; Asleep on ZURICH'S shore! O GODDARD! what art thou?--a name-- A sunbeam followed by a shade! Nor more, for aught that time supplies, The great, the experienced, and the wise: Too much from this frail earth we claim, And therefore are betrayed. We met, while festive mirth ran wild, Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, A sea-green river, proud to lave, With current swift and undefiled, The towers of old LUCERNE. We parted upon solemn ground Far-lifted towards the unfading sky; But all our thoughts were 'then' of Earth, That gives to common pleasures birth; And nothing in our hearts we found That prompted even a sigh. Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, Herbs, moistened by Virginian dew, A most untimely grave to strew, Whose turf may never know the care Of 'kindred' human hands! Beloved by every gentle Muse He left his Transatlantic home: Europe, a realised romance, Had opened on his eager glance; What present bliss!--what golden views! What stores for years to come! Though lodged within no vigorous frame, His soul her daily tasks renewed, Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings High poised--or as the wren that sings In shady places, to proclaim Her modest gratitude. Not vain is sadly-uttered praise; The words of truth's memorial vow Are sweet as morning fragrance shed From flowers 'mid GOLDAU'S ruins bred; As evening's fondly-lingering rays, On RIGHI'S silent brow. Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay Fit obsequies the Stranger paid; And piety shall guard the Stone Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resigned their prey-- And 'that' which marks thy bed. And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, Lost Youth! a solitary Mother; This tribute from a casual Friend A not unwelcome aid may lend, To feed the tender luxury, The rising pang to smother.