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While, in a ship begirt with silver bells,

They round his altar bore the hornèd God,
Old Cham, the solar Deity, who dwells
Aloft, yet in a tilting vessel rode,

When universal sea the mountains overflowed.

Why speak of Roman pomps? the haughty claims
Of chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars;
The feast of Neptune, and the cereal games,
With images, and crowns, and empty cars;
The dancing Salii, on the shields of Mars
Smiting with fury; and a deeper dread
Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars
Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head
Of Cybele was seen, sublimely turreted!

At length a spirit more subdued and soft
Appeared, to govern Christian pageantries:
The Cross, in calm procession, borne aloft
Moved to the chant of sober litanies.

Even such, this day, came wafted on the breeze
From a long train, in hooded vestments fair
Enwrapt, and winding, between Alpine trees
Spiry and dark, around their house of prayer,
Below the icy bed of bright Argentiere.

Still in the vivid freshness of a dream,
The pageant haunts me as it met our eyes!
Still, with those white-robed shapes, a living stream,
The glacier pillars join in solemn guise
For the same service, by mysterious ties;
Numbers exceeding credible account
Of number, pure and silent votaries
Issuing or issued from a wintry fount ;

The impenetrable heart of that exalted mount !

They, too, who send so far a holy gleam.
While they the Church engird with motion slow,
A product of that awful mountain seem,
Poured from his vaults of everlasting snow;

Not virgin lilies marshalled in bright row,
Not swans descending with the stealthy tide,
A livelier sisterly resemblance show

Than the fair forms, that in long order glide,
Bear to the glacier band, those shapes aloft descried.

Trembling, I look upon the secret springs
Of that licentious craving in the mind
To act the God among external things,
To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind;
And marvel not that antique faith inclined
To crowd the world with metamorphosis,
Vouchsafed in pity or in wrath assigned;
Such insolent temptations wouldst thou miss,
Avoid these sights; nor brood o'er fable's dark abyss !


The lamented youth, whose untimely death gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick William Goddard, from Boston in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided for some time with a clergyman in the neighbourhood of Geneva for the completion of his education. Accompanied by a fellowpupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out on a Swiss tour when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, took leave of each other at night, the young men having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the morning my friend found his new acquaintances, who were informed of the object of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student became in consequence our travelling companions for a couple of days. We ascended the Righi together; and, after contemplating the sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party descended through the valley of Our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva; but on the third succeeding day (on the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset in a boat while crossing the

Lake of Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of Küsnacht, which records the premature fate of the young American, and on the shores too of the lake the traveller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was deposited by the


LULLED by the sound of pastoral bells,
Rude Nature's pilgrims did we go,
From the dread summit of the queen 1
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 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!

1 Mount Righi-Regina Montium.

Oh 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.1



Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape
Of a proud Ararat! and, thereupon,
The ark, her melancholy voyage done!
Yon rampant cloud mimics a lion's shape;
There, combats a huge crocodile, agape
A golden spear to swallow! and that brown
And massy grove, so near yon blazing town,
Stirs and recedes, destruction to escape!

1 The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afflicted mother felt was derived from this tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her daughter, who visited Europe some years afterwards. Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the mountain Rossberg.

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