Hither, like yon ancient Tower
Watching o'er the River's bed,
Fling the shadow of thy power,

Else we sleep among the Dead;
Thou who trod'st the billowy Sea,

Shield us in our jeopardy!

Guide our Bark among the waves;

Through the rocks our passage smooth;

Where the whirlpool frets and raves
Let thy love its anger soothe :

All our hope is placed in Thee;
Miserere Domine!

X.

THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE.

NOT, like his great compeers, indignantly
Doth DANUBE spring to life! The wandering Stream
(Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's gleam
Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee
Slips from his prison walls and Fancy, free
To follow in his track of silver light,
Reaches, with one brief moment's rapid flight,
The vast Encincture of that gloomy sea
Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to meet
In conflict; whose rough winds forgot their jars
To waft the heroic progeny of Greece,
When the first Ship sailed for the golden Fleece,
ARGO, exalted for that daring feat

To bear in heaven a shape distinct with stars.

Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was Captain General of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the flagitious and too successful attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate their country.

AROUND a wild and woody hill

A gravelled pathway treading,

We reached a votive Stone that bears

The name of Aloys Reding.

Well judged the Friend who placed it there

For silence and protection,

And haply with a finer care

Of dutiful affection.

The Sun regards it from the West, Sinking in summer glory;

And, while he sinks, affords a type

Of that pathetic story.

And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss Amid the grove to linger;

Till all is dim, save this bright Stone Touched by his golden finger.

XII.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS OF SWITZERLAND.

DOOMED as we are our native dust

To wet with many a bitter shower,
It ill befits us to disdain

The Altar, to deride the Fane,

Where patient Sufferers bend, in trust
To win a happier hour.

I love, where spreads the village lawn,
Upon some knee-worn Cell to gaze;
Hail to the firm unmoving Cross,
Aloft, where pines their branches toss !
And to the Chapel far withdrawn,
That lurks by lonely ways!

Through Alpine vale, or champain wide,

Whate'er we look on, at our side

Be Charity! to bid us think,

And feel, if we would know.