Last, let us turn to Chamouny
that shields [157]
With rocks and gloomy woods [158] her
fertile fields: 570
Five streams of ice amid her cots descend,
And with wild flowers and blooming orchards
blend;—[Ee]
A scene more fair than what the Grecian
feigns
Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains;
Here all the seasons revel hand in hand:
575
’Mid lawns and shades by breezy
rivulets fanned [159]
[160] They sport beneath that mountain’s
matchless height [161]
That holds no commerce with the summer
night. [Ee]
From age to age, throughout [162] his
lonely bounds
The crash of ruin fitfully resounds;
580
Appalling [163] havoc! but serene his
brow,
Where daylight lingers on [164] perpetual
snow;
Glitter the stars, and all is black below.
[Ee]
What marvel then if many a
Wanderer sigh,
While roars the sullen Arve in anger by,
[165] 585
That not for thy reward, unrivall’d
[166] Vale! [Ff]
Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal
gale;
That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed
to pine
And droop, while no Italian arts are thine,
To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine.
[167] 590
Hail Freedom! whether it was
mine to stray,
With shrill winds whistling round my lonely
way, [168]
On [169] the bleak sides of Cumbria’s
heath-clad moors,
Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland’s
shores;
To scent the sweets of Piedmont’s
breathing rose, 595
And orange gale that o’er Lugano
blows;
Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails,
That virtue languishes and pleasure fails,
[170]
While the remotest hamlets blessings share
In thy loved [171] presence known, and
only there; 600
Heart-blessings—outward
treasures too which the eye
Of the sun peeping through the clouds
can spy,
And every passing breeze will testify.
[172]
There, to the porch, belike with jasmine
bound
Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is
wound; [173] 605
The housewife there a brighter garden
sees,
Where hum on busier wing her happy bees;
[174]
On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow;
And grey-haired men look up with livelier
brow,—[175]
To greet the traveller needing food and
rest; 610
Housed for the night, or but a half-hour’s
guest. [176]
And oh, fair France! though
now the traveller sees
Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on
the breeze;[177]
Though martial songs have banished songs
of love,
And nightingales desert the village grove,
[178] 615
Scared by the fife and rumbling drum’s
alarms,
And the short thunder, and the flash of
arms;
That cease not till night falls, when
far and nigh,
Sole sound, the Sourd [Gg] prolongs his