THE PASSAGE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF ST. GOTHARD.

TO MY CHILDREN.

YE plains, where three-fold harvests press the ground,

Ye climes, where genial gales incessant swell, Where Art and Nature shed profusely round Their rival wonders-Italy, farewell!

Still may thy year in fullest splendour shine!
Its icy darts in vain may Winter throw!
To thee a parent, sister, I consign,

And wing'd with health I woo thy gales to blow. Yet pleased Helvetia's rugged brows I see,

And through their craggy steeps delighted roam; Pleased with a people honest, brave, and free, Whilst every step conducts me nearer home. I wander where Tesino* madly flows,

From cliff to cliff in foaming eddies toss'd; On the rude mountain's barren breast he rose, In Po's broad wave now hurries to be lost. His shores, neat huts and verdant pastures fill, And hills, where woods of pine the storm defy; While, scorning vegetation, higher still

Rise the bare rocks coeval with the sky.

Upon his banks a favour'd spot I found,
Where shade and beauty tempted to repose;
Within a grove, by mountains circled round,
By rocks o'erhung, my rustic seat I chose.

• The Tesino takes its rise not far from the summit of St. Gothard, and joins the Po near Pavia.

Advancing thence by gentle pace and slow, Unconscious of the way my footsteps press'd, Sudden, supported by the hills below,

St. Gothard's summit rose above the rest.

Midst towering cliffs, and tracts of endless cold,
The' industrious path pervades the rugged stone,
And seems-Helvetia, let thy toils be told-
A granite girdle o'er the mountain thrown.

No haunt of men the weary traveller greets,
No vegetation smiles upon the moor,

Save where the floweret breathes uncultured sweets,

Save where the patient monk receives the poor *.

Yet let not these rude paths be coldly traced,

Let not these wilds with listless step be trod, Here Fragrance scorns not to perfume the waste, Here Charity uplifts the mind to God.

His humble board the holy man prepares,

And simple food and wholesome lore bestows, Extols the treasures that his mountain bears, And paints the perils of impending snows.

For whilst bleak Winter numbs with chilling hand, Where frequent crosses† mark the traveller's fate, In slow procession moves the merchant band,

And silent bends, where tottering ruins wait.

* There is a small convent at the top of the mountain, where two monks reside, who are obliged to receive and entertain the poor traveller that passes that way.

+ Where any lives have been lost from the falls of snow, a smail cross is erected.

Yet midst those ridges, midst that drifted snow,
Can Nature deign her wonders to display:
Here Adularia shines with vivid glow,
And gems of crystal sparkle to the day.

Here too, the hoary mountain's brow to grace, Five silver lakes* in tranquil state are seen; While from their waters many a stream we trace, That, scaped from bondage, roll the rocks between.

Here flows the Reuss to seek her wedded love, And, with the Rhine, Germanic climes explore; Her stream I mark'd, and saw her wildly move Down the bleak mountain, through the craggy shore.

My weary footsteps hoped for rest in vain, For steep on steep, in wild confusion roset; At length I paused above a fertile plain,

That promised shelter, and foretold repose.

Fair runs the streamlet o'er the pasture green, Its margin gay, with flocks and cattle spread; Embowering trees the peaceful village screen, And guard from snow each dwelling's jutting shed.

The Rhine, the Rhone, the Aar, the Tesino, and the Reuss, all rise in the mountain of St. Gothard. The Reuss unites with the Aar, beyond the lake of Constance, and with them falls into the Rhine.

The valley of Urseren, celebrated for its fertility and ver dure, and the placid manner in which the Reuss traverses it..

Sweet vale! whose bosom wastes and cliffs sur

round,

Let me awhile thy friendly shelter share! Emblem of life! where some bright hours are found, Amidst the darkest, dreariest years of care.

Delved through the rock, the secret passage bends, Majestic horrors strike the dazzled sight; Beneath the pendent bridge the stream descends Calm-till it tumbles o'er the frowning height.

We view the fearful pass-we wind along

The path that marks the terrors of our way— Midst beetling rocks, and hanging woods among, The torrent pours, and throws its glittering spray.

Weary at length, serener scenes we hail,

More cultured groves o'ershade the grassy meads,

The neat though wooden hamlets deck the vale,
And Altorf's spires recall heroic deeds.

But though no more amidst those scenes I roam,
My fancy long each image shall retain;
The flock's returning to its welcome home,
And the wild carol of the cowherd's strain

Lucernia's lake its glassy surface shows,
Whilst Nature's varied beauties deck its side;
Here rocks and woods its narrow waves inclose,
And there its spreading bosom opens wide.

*The Rans des Vaches,' sung by the Swiss cowherds, is a simple melody, intermixed with the cry which they use to call the cows together.

And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild!
Where Tell directed the avenging dart,
With well strung arm, that first preserved his child,
Then wing'd the arrow to the tyrant's heart.

Across the lake, and deep embower'd in wood,
Behold another hallow'd chapel stand,
Where three Swiss heroes lawless force withstood,
And stamp'd the freedom of their native land.

Their liberty required no rites uncouth,

No blood demanded, and no slaves enchain'd; Her rule was gentle, and her voice was truth, By social order form'd, by laws restrain'd.

We quit the lake-and cultivation's toil

With Nature's charms combined adorns the way; And well earn'd wealth improves the ready soil, And simple manners still maintain their sway.

Farewell, Helvetia! from whose lofty breast

Proud Alps arise, and copious rivers flow; Where, source of streams, eternal glaciers rest, And peaceful science gilds the plains below.

Oft on thy rocks the wondering eye shall gaze,
Thy valleys oft the raptured bosom seek;
There, Nature's hand her boldest work displays,
Here, bliss domestic beams on every cheek.

Hope of my life! dear children of my heart!
That anxious heart, to each fond feeling true,
To you still pants each pleasure to impart,
And more, oh transport! reach its home and you.

DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.