At length you fly from smoke and noise,
To wholesome air and tranquil joys,
From Route 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
To scorn restraint, and break all laws;
Alarm'd we fly to her great Cause,
And, awed though tranquillised, we hail
The goodness that can never fail
Of Him, who all these wonders plann'd,
And in whose presence here we stand,
Who gave us (grateful let us kneel!)
Eyes to discern, and hearts to feel.
Let then th' aerial spire arise,
And tower on tower invade the skies:
On clustering shafts the proud dome raise;
With gems and gold the walls emblaze;
Bid Art with Truth wage generous strife,
And soften marble into life:
Then consecrate, in pomp, the pile,
While wondering angels gaze and smile;
Here are his temples, here his court!
Hither the Pilgrim should resort;
Not cross the desert's burning sands
To bow at altars built by hands,
Nor to L ORETTO 's shrine repair,
Though Spirits bore it through the air.
Nurs'd in these scenes sublime, severe,
The wild, but pious Mountaineer
Learns their great Author to revere:
Gentle, though ever prone to dare,
And, when the need is, firm to bear,
'Tis his to extort by patient toil
His hard fare from the churlish soil:
Through pathless hills to guide, and save
The wanderer from a sudden grave.
Or, on his pike-staff bounding high,
From rock to rock, o'er torrents fly:
Or, cowering, on his knees to creep
Along the ridge of some tall steep,
Chasing the Chamois — " dreadful calling; "
Ever 'mid sights, and sounds appalling;
Above! the avalanche! — below,
The crevasse in the treacherous snow!
Where Death lurks, waiting for his prey,
Watching the hunter on his way.
The path breaks down — Behold he falls!
In vain to climb the glassy walls
He strives, and strives: — he shouts in vain,
Far far from all the haunts of men;
Deep in the narrow chasm he lies,
No more to see the cheerful skies;
Not one of all his soul holds dear
To close his eyes, or dress his bier:
Unknown his burial-place, though guess'd
Alas! too truly, all the rest.
They search, but find not. He must lie
For ever hid from human eye.
Yet bites not there the insulting worm,
Even Time respects his manly form:
He still shall sleep, unchang'd, tho' lost,
Embalm'd in everlasting frost.
Alive that manly form could please,
Though clad in undy'd robe of frieze.
Heav'ns! how unlike the half-sex'd Beau,
Screw'd in new stays for Rotten-row!
With tiny coat, but huge cravat,
Rings, seals, and glasses, and " all that! "
Enough — Farewell! with higher matter
'Tis wrong to blend truth so like satire.
To wholesome air and tranquil joys,
From Route 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
To scorn restraint, and break all laws;
Alarm'd we fly to her great Cause,
And, awed though tranquillised, we hail
The goodness that can never fail
Of Him, who all these wonders plann'd,
And in whose presence here we stand,
Who gave us (grateful let us kneel!)
Eyes to discern, and hearts to feel.
Let then th' aerial spire arise,
And tower on tower invade the skies:
On clustering shafts the proud dome raise;
With gems and gold the walls emblaze;
Bid Art with Truth wage generous strife,
And soften marble into life:
Then consecrate, in pomp, the pile,
While wondering angels gaze and smile;
Here are his temples, here his court!
Hither the Pilgrim should resort;
Not cross the desert's burning sands
To bow at altars built by hands,
Nor to L ORETTO 's shrine repair,
Though Spirits bore it through the air.
Nurs'd in these scenes sublime, severe,
The wild, but pious Mountaineer
Learns their great Author to revere:
Gentle, though ever prone to dare,
And, when the need is, firm to bear,
'Tis his to extort by patient toil
His hard fare from the churlish soil:
Through pathless hills to guide, and save
The wanderer from a sudden grave.
Or, on his pike-staff bounding high,
From rock to rock, o'er torrents fly:
Or, cowering, on his knees to creep
Along the ridge of some tall steep,
Chasing the Chamois — " dreadful calling; "
Ever 'mid sights, and sounds appalling;
Above! the avalanche! — below,
The crevasse in the treacherous snow!
Where Death lurks, waiting for his prey,
Watching the hunter on his way.
The path breaks down — Behold he falls!
In vain to climb the glassy walls
He strives, and strives: — he shouts in vain,
Far far from all the haunts of men;
Deep in the narrow chasm he lies,
No more to see the cheerful skies;
Not one of all his soul holds dear
To close his eyes, or dress his bier:
Unknown his burial-place, though guess'd
Alas! too truly, all the rest.
They search, but find not. He must lie
For ever hid from human eye.
Yet bites not there the insulting worm,
Even Time respects his manly form:
He still shall sleep, unchang'd, tho' lost,
Embalm'd in everlasting frost.
Alive that manly form could please,
Though clad in undy'd robe of frieze.
Heav'ns! how unlike the half-sex'd Beau,
Screw'd in new stays for Rotten-row!
With tiny coat, but huge cravat,
Rings, seals, and glasses, and " all that! "
Enough — Farewell! with higher matter
'Tis wrong to blend truth so like satire.