THE FALL OF THE AAR.-HANDEC. FROM the fierce aspect of this River throwing His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink, Back in astonishment and fear we shrink: But gradually a calmer look bestowing, Flowers we espy beside the torrent growing; Flowers that peep forth from many a cleft and chink, And, from the whirlwind of his anger drink Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing: They suck, from breath that threatening to destroy Is more benignant than the dewy eve, Beauty, and life, and motions as of joy: Nor doubt but HE to whom yon Pine-trees nod Their heads in sign of worship, Nature's God, These humbler adorations will receive.

SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ.

« WHAT know we of the blest above
But that they sing and that they love?»>
Yet, if they ever did inspire

A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir,
Now, where those harvest Damsels float
Homeward in their rugged Boat,
(While all the ruffling winds are fled,
Each slumbering on some mountain's head),
Now, surely, hath that gracious aid
Been felt, that influence is displayed.
Pupils of Heaven, in order stand
The rustic Maidens, every hand
Upon a Sister's shoulder laid,-
To chant, as glides the boat along,
A simple, but a touching, Song;
To chant, as Angels do above,
The melodies of Peace in Love!

ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS.

FOR gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes
The work of Fancy from her willing hands;
And such a beautiful creation makes
As renders needless spells and magic wands,
And for the boldest tale belief commands.
When first mine eyes beheld that famous Hill
The sacred ENGELBERG;' celestial Bands,

With intermingling motions soft and still,

Hung round its top, on wings that changed their liues at will.

Clouds do not name those Visitants; they were
The very Angels whose authentic lays,

Sung from that heavenly ground in middle air,
Made known the spot where Piety should raise
A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise.
Resplendent Apparition! if in vain

My ears did listen, 't was enough to gaze;
And watch the slow departure of the train,
Whose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted to detain!

This Tower is said to stand upon the spot where grew the Linden Tree against which his Son was placed, when the Father's archery was put to proof under circumstances so famous in Swiss History.

WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here,
Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow
On Marathonian valour, yet the tear

Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show,
While narrow cares their limits overflow.
Thrice happy, Burghers, Peasants, Warriors old,
Infants in arms, and Ye, that as ye go
Home-ward or School-ward; ape what ye behold;
Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold!

Bat when that calm Spectatress from on high
Looks down-the bright and solitary Moon,
Who never gazes but to beautify;
And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune
That fosters peace, and gentleness recals;
Then might the passing Monk receive a boon
Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls,
While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing lustre falls.

How blest the souls who when their trials come
Yield not to terror or despondency,

But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom,
Whose head the ruddy Apple tops, while he
Expectant stands beneath the linden tree,
Not quaking like the timid forest game;
He smiles-the hesitating shaft to free,
Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim,
And to his Father give its own unerring aim.

THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ.
By antique Fancy trimmed-though lowly, bred
To dignity-in thee, O SCHWYTZ! are seen
The genuine features of the golden mean;
Equality by Prudence governed,

Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead;
And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, serene
As that of the sweet fields and meadows green
In unambitious compass round thee spread,
Majestic BERNE, high on her guardian steep,
Holding a central station of command,
Might well be styled this noble Body's HEAD;
Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrenchments deep,

Its HEART; and ever may the heroic Land
Thy name, O SCHWYTZ, in happy freedom keep!!

ON HEARING THE RANZ DES VACHES »
ON THE TOP OF THE PASS OF ST GOTHARD.

I LISTEN-but no faculty of mine
Avails those modulations to detect,

Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of the French Invasion) bad elapsed, when, for the first time, foreign soldiers were seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, to impose upon it the laws of their governors.

Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked
With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject
The tale as fabulous.-Here while I recline
Mindful how others love this simple Strain,
Even here, upon this glorious Mountain (named
Of God himself from dread pre-eminence)
Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed,
Yield to the Music's touching influence,
And joys of distant home my heart enchain.

THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO.

This Church was almost destroyed by lightning a few years ago, but the Altar and the Image of the Patron Saint were untouched. The Mount, upon the summit of which the Church is built, stands amid the intricacies of the Lake of Lugano; and is, from a hundred points of view, its principal ornament, rising to the height of 2000 feet, and, on one side, nearly perpendicular.— The ascent is toilsome; but the traveller who performs it will be amply rewarded. Splendid fertility, rich woods and dazzling waters, seclusion and confinement of view contrasted with sea-like extent of plain fading into the sky; and this again, in an opposite quarter, with an horizon of the loftiest and boldest. Alps-unite in composing a prospect more diversified by magnificence, beauty, and sublimity, than perhaps any other point in Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, commands.

THOU sacred Pile! whose turrets rise

From yon steep Mountain's loftiest stage,
Guarded by lone San Salvador;
Sink (if thou must) as heretofore,
To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice,
But ne'er to human rage!

On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned
To rest the universal Lord:
Why leap the fountains from their cells
Where everlasting Bounty dwells?
-That, while the Creature is sustained,
His God may be adored.

Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times,
Let all remind the soul of heaven;
Our slack devotion needs them all;
And Faith, so oft of sense the thrall,
While she, by aid of Nature, climbs,
May hope to be forgiven.

Glory, and patriotic Love,

And all the Pomps of this frail «<spot

Which men call Earth,» have yearned to seck,
Associate with the simply meek,
Religion in the sainted grove,
And in the hallowed grot.

Thither, in time of adverse shocks,
Of fainting hopes and backward wills,
Did mighty Tell repair of old-
A Hero cast in Nature's mould,
Deliverer of the steadfast rocks
And of the ancient hills!

He, too, of battle-martyrs chief!
Who, to recal his daunted peers,
For victory shaped an open space,
By gathering with a wide embrace,
Into his single heart, a sheaf
Of fatal Austrian spears.

FORT FUENTES.

The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rocky eminence that rises from the plain at the head of the Lake of Como, commanding views up the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direction is characterised by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced at being favoured with a distinct view of those Alpine heights; not, as we had expected from the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion with clouds floating or stationary-scatterings from heaven. The Ruin is interesting both in mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon elaborately-sculptured marble lying on the ground, records that the Fort had been erected by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of Philip the Third; and the Chapel, about twenty years after, by one of his descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet standing, and a considerable part of the Chapel walls: a smooth green turf has taken place of the pavement, and we could see no trace of altar or image; but every where something to remind one of former splendour, and of devastation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with bushes: near the ruins were some, ill tended, but growing willingly; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was growing in great beauty. While descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the ruined Chapel, a statue of a Child in pure white marble, uninjured by the explosion that had driven it so far down the hill. How little,' we exclaimed, are these things valued here! Could we but transport this pretty Image to our own garden!'-Yet it seemed it would have been a pity any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years.-Extract from Journal.

DREAD hour! when upheaved by war's sulphurous blast,
This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone
So far from the holy enclosure was cast,

To couch in this thicket of brambles alone;

To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm

Of his half-open hand pure from blemish or speck; And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the calm Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his neck.

Where haply (kind service to Piety due!)

When winter the grove of its mantle bereaves, Some Bird (like our own honoured Redbreast) may strew The desolate Slumberer with moss and with leaves.

FUENTES Once harboured the Good and the Brave,

Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown; Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave While the thrill of her fifes through the mountains was blown:

Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless Ascent-
O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway
When the whirlwind of human destruction is spent,
Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away!—

Arnold Winkelreid, at the battle of Sempach, broke an Austrian phalanx in this manner. The event is one of the most famous in the annals of Swiss heroism; and pictures and prints of it are frequent throughout the country.

My Song, encouraged by the grace
That beams from his ingenuous face,
For this Adventurer scruples not
To prophesy a golden lot;
Due recompense, and safe return
To Como's steeps-his happy bourne!
Where he, aloft in garden glade,
Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid,
The towering maize, and prop the twig
That ill supports the luscious fig;
Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof
With purple of the trellis-roof,
That through the jealous leaves escapes
From Cadenabbia's pendant grapes.
-Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child
To share his wanderings! him whose look
Even yet my heart can scarcely brook,
So touchingly he smiled,

As with a rapture caught from heaven, For unasked alms in pity given.

PART II.

WITH nodding plumes, and lightly drest
Like Foresters in leaf-green vest,
The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground
For Tell's dread archery renowned,
Before the target stood—to claim
The guerdon of the steadiest aim.
Loud was the rifle-gun's report,
A startling thunder quick and short!
But, flying through the heights around,
Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound
Of hearts and hands alike « prepared
The treasures they enjoy to guard!»>
And, if there be a favoured hour
When Heroes are allowed to quit
The Tomb, and on the clouds to sit
With tutelary power,

On their Descendants shedding grace, This was the hour, and that the place.

But Truth inspired the Bards of old
When of an iron age they told,
Which to unequal laws gave birth,
That drove Astræa from the earth.
-A gentle Boy (perchance with blood
As noble as the best endued,

But seemingly a Thing despised,
Even by the sun and air unprized;
For not a tinge or flowery streak
Appeared upon his tender cheek)
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes
Of pleasure, by his silent Goats,
Sate far apart in forest shed,
Pale, ragged, bare his feet and head,
Mute as the snow upon the hill,
And, as the Saint he prays to, still.
Ab, what avails heroic deed?

What liberty? if no defence

Be won for feeble Innocence

Father of All! though wilful Manhood read

Bis punishment in soul-distress,

Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness!

THE LAST SUPPER,

BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, IN THE REFECTORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA DELLA GRAZIA.-MILAN.

THOUGH searching damps and many an envious flaw
Have marred this Work, the calm ethereal grace,
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
The Elements; as they do melt and thaw
The heart of the Beholder-and erase
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace
Of disobedience to the primal law.

The annunciation of the dreadful truth
Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek,
And hand reposing on the board in ruth

This picture of the Last Supper has not only been grievously injured by time, but parts are said to have been painted over again. These niceties may be left to connoisseurs.-I speak of it as I felt. The copy exhibited in London some years ago, and the engraving by Morghen, are both admirable; but in the original is a power which seither of those works has attained, or even approached.

Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek
Unquestionable meanings, still bespeak
A labour worthy of eternal youth!

THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820.

HIGH on her speculative Tower
Stood Science waiting for the Hour
When Sol was destined to endure
That darkening of his radiant face
Which Superstition strove to chase,
Erewhile, with rites impure.

Afloat beneath Italian skies,
Through regions fair as Paradise
We gaily passed,-till Nature wrought
A silent and unlooked-for change,
That checked the desultory range
Of joy and sprightly thought.

Where'er was dipped the toiling oar,
The waves danced round us as before,
As lightly, though of altered hue;
Mid recent coolness, such as falls

At noon-tide from umbrageous walls
That screen the morning dew.

No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud Cast far or near a murky shroud;

The sky an azure field displayed;

'T was sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, And as in slumber laid :—

Or something night and day between, Like moonshine-but the hue was green; Still moonshine, without shadow, spread On jutting rock, and curved shore, Where gazed the Peasant from his door, And on the mountain's head.

It tinged the Julian steeps-it lay,
Lugano! on thy ample bay;
The solemnizing veil was drawn
D'er Villas, Terraces, and Towers,
To Albogasio's olive bowers,
Porlezza's verdant lawn.

But Fancy, with the speed of fire,
Hath fled to Milan's loftiest spire,
And there alights 'mid that aerial host
Of figures human and divine,❜
White as the snows of Apennine
Indurated by frost.

The hand

Sang with the voice, and this the argument. -MILTON.

The Statues ranged round the Spire and along the roof of the Cathedral of Milan, have been found fault with by Persons whose exclusive taste is unfortunate for themselves. It is true that the same expense and labour, judiciously directed to purposes more strictly architectural, might have much heightened the general effect of the building; for, seen from the ground, the Statues appear diminutive. But the coup d'œil, from the best point of view, which is half way up the Spire, must strike an unprejudiced Person with admiration; and surely the selection and arrangement of the Figures is exquisitely fitted to support the religion of the Country in the imaginations and feelings of the Spectator. It was with great pleasure that I saw,