And this is in the night :-Most gloriou night!

Thou wert not sent for slumber! 1 me be

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight.A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphori

sea,

And the big rain comes dancing to th earth!

And now again 'tis black,-and now, th glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mour tain-mirth,

As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth quake's birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone clear his way between Heights which appear as lovers wh have parted

In hate, whose mining depths so inter

vene,

That they can meet no more, thoug broken-hearted;

Though in their souls, which thus ex other thwarted,

Love was the very root of the fond ra Which blighted their life's bloom, an then departed:

Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters,-war within them selves to wage:

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hat cleft his way,

The mightiest of the storms hath ta his stand:

For here, not one, but many, mak their play,

And fling their thunder-bolts from har to hand,

Flashing and cast around; of all th band,

The brightest through these parted hi' hath fork'd

His lightnings,-as if he did understand That in such gaps as desolation work There the hot shaft should blast wha ever therein lurk'd.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lak lightnings! ye!

With night, and clouds, and thunde and a soul

To make these felt and feeling, wel may be

Things that have made me watchful the far roll

And living as if earth contain❜d no tomb,

And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room

And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly.

Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love!

Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought;

Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above

The very Glaciers have his colors caught,

And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought

By rays which sleep there lovingly; the rocks,

The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought

In them a refuge from the worldly

shocks,

Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,

Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renew'd-with no kind auspices: to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem

We are not what we should be, and to steel

The heart against itself; and to conceal, What a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,

Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal,

Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,

Is a stern task of soul:-No matter,-it is taught.

And for these words, thus woven into

Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive,

And virtues which are merciful, nor

weave

Snares for the failing; I would also deem

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;

That two, or one, are almost what they

seem,

That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream

My daughter! with thy name this song begun;

My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end;

I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the

friend

To aid thy mind's development, to watch Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch

Knowledge of objects.-wonders yet to thee!

To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,

This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;

Yet this was in my nature: as it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,

I know that thou wilt love me; though my name

Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught

With desolation, and a broken claim; Though the grave closed between us,'t were the same,

I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain

My blood from out thy being were an aim,

And an attainment,-all would be in vain,—

Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.

The child of love, though born in bitterness,

And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, and thine no less.

As yet such are around thee, but thy fire Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.

Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea

And from the mountains where I now respire,

Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,

As with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me.

May-June, 1816. November 18, 1816.

To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd-forbidden fare
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'd chains and courted death:
That father perish'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place ;
We were seven--who now are one
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish'd as they had begun,
Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field
Their belief with blood have seal'd,
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied ;
Three were in a dungeon cast.
Of whom this wreck is left the last.

There are seven pillars of Gothic mou
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy a
gray,

Dim with a dull imprison'd ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way
And through the crevice and the cl- f
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,

For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes.
Which have not seen the sun so rise
For years-I cannot count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score,
When my last brother droop'd and died
And I lay living by his side.

They chain'd us each to a column stone
And we were three-yet, each alone,
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight:
And thus together-yet apart,
Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart,
"T was still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon stone,