LXII.

   But these recede.  Above me are the Alps,
   The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
   Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
   And throned Eternity in icy halls
   Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
   The avalanche—­the thunderbolt of snow! 
   All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
   Gathers around these summits, as to show
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.

LXIII.

   But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan,
   There is a spot should not be passed in vain, —
   Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man
   May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain,
   Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain;
   Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host,
   A bony heap, through ages to remain,
   Themselves their monument;—­the Stygian coast
Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost.

LXIV.

   While Waterloo with Cannae’s carnage vies,
   Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand;
   They were true Glory’s stainless victories,
   Won by the unambitious heart and hand
   Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,
   All unbought champions in no princely cause
   Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land
   Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws
Making king’s rights divine, by some Draconic clause.

LXV.

   By a lone wall a lonelier column rears
   A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days
   ’Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years,
   And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze
   Of one to stone converted by amaze,
   Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands,
   Making a marvel that it not decays,
   When the coeval pride of human hands,
Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands.

LXVI.

   And there—­oh! sweet and sacred be the name! —
   Julia—­the daughter, the devoted—­gave
   Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim
   Nearest to Heaven’s, broke o’er a father’s grave. 
   Justice is sworn ’gainst tears, and hers would crave
   The life she lived in; but the judge was just,
   And then she died on him she could not save. 
   Their tomb was simple, and without a bust,
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.

LXVII.

   But these are deeds which should not pass away,
   And names that must not wither, though the earth
   Forgets her empires with a just decay,
   The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;
   The high, the mountain-majesty of worth,
   Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,
   And from its immortality look forth
   In the sun’s face, like yonder Alpine snow,
Imperishably pure beyond all things below.