III.

A DREAM.

Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd,
Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream,
Under o'erhanging pines; the morning sun,
On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,

On the red pinings of their forest floor,

Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pines The mountain skirts, with all their sylvan change

Of bright-leaf'd chesnuts, and moss'd walnut-trees, And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.

Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes,

And from some swarded shelf high up, there came Notes of wild pastoral music: over all

Rang'd, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow.
Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge,
Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood,
Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves
Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof
Lay the warm golden gourds; golden, within,
Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn.
We shot beneath the cottage with the stream.
On the brown rude-carv'd balcony two Forms
Came forth-Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine.
Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breasts;
Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue
Which wav'd, and on their shoulders fluttering play'd.
They saw us, they conferr'd; their bosoms heav'd,
And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes.
Their lips mov'd; their white arms, wav'd eagerly,
Flash'd once, like falling streams:- -we rose, we gaz'd:
One moment, on the rapid's top, our boat

Hung pois'd-and then the darting River of Life,
Loud thundering, bore us by: swift, swift it foam'd;

Black under cliffs it rac'd, round headlands shone.

Soon the plank'd cottage 'mid the sun-warm'd pines Faded, the moss, the rocks; us burning Plains

Bristled with cities, us the Sea receiv'd.

IV.

PARTING.

YE storm-winds of Autumn

Who rush by, who shake

The window, and ruffle

The gleam-lighted lake;

Who cross to the hill-side

Thin-sprinkled with farms,

Where the high woods strip sadly

Their yellowing arms ;

Ye are bound for the mountains

Ah, with you let me go

Where your cold distant barrier,

The vast range of snow,

Through the loose clouds lifts dimly

Its white peaks in air

How deep is their stillness!

Ah! would I were there!

But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear? Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?

Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook That the sweet voice its upland clearness took? Ah! it comes nearer

Sweet notes, this way!

Hark! fast by the window
The rushing winds go,

To the ice-cumber'd gorges,

The vast seas of snow.

There the torrents drive upward

Their rock-strangled hum,