Lulled By The Sound Of Pastoral Bells, Rude Nature'S Pilgrims Did We Go, From The Dread Summit Of The Queen 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 As 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! O 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.