Littell's Living Age/Volume 134/Issue 1729/Switzerland, viâ Paris And Neuchatel

by Blomfield Jackson

SWITZERLAND, viâ PARIS AND NEUCHATEL.

I.
THE EVENING.

Jingle, tinkle, rattle, rumble through the glittering, shimmering street,
Hark to coach and carriage chiming with the pattering tramp of feet!
Crop-haired waiters run white-aproned to the call of ringing glass,
Lazy idlers, round small tables, eyeing idlers as they pass.

All the air is heated, heavy, gritty; oh, 'tis hard to tell
Whether fruit it be, or gravy, or tobacco that you smell;
For a very complex perfume goes up steaming to the stars
From twice twenty thousand cook-shops, from a million of cigars.
 
Jingle, tinkle, rattle, rumble through the glittering, shimmering streets,
Drive in time to ticket luggage, and get comfortable seats;
With a shoving, and a shouting, and a banging-to of doors,
Off at last, the train creaks, moves, grates, quickens, hurries, rushes, roars.

II.
THE NIGHT.

Happy he who sleeps securely in the arms of an express,
Whom nor row nor racket troubles, nor the jolts and jars distress!
Sweet it is to slumber soundly through the livelong summer night,
With legs propped upon the cushions, with dim blind drawn o'er the light.

Does a station break the sameness of monotonous rush-on?
Then queer dreams confuse the future with adventures that are gone.
Then he preaches from a "Murray;" stethoscopes with alpenstock;
Speculates in railway coupons; dooms a landlord in a dock.

Then an avalanche o'erwhelms him! 'Tis a hat-box from the rack;
Or he tumbles down an ice-hill with a mountain on his back,
And half wakes to find he's falling on a fellow-dreamer's knees,
Stiff and weary of contraction, like a wretch in Little Ease.

III.
THE MORNING.

 But behold wan dawn before us, whispering a new day's birth;
See her roses bloom in cloudland, hear her morning hymn to earth;
Sending thankful music Godward, flinging incense in the air,
All the world's awake, and wondering how it came to wake so fair.

Hail, old lichened woods, that waft us dear remembered scent of pine;
Hail, mysterious winds that gladden like the giant's draught of wine;
Hail, high hills, that whoso loveth, loveth with a yearning love,
Everlasting shrines of worship, steppingstones to things above.

Through rent rocks, down winding gorges, rushes on our steed of steel,
Till a blue lake's shining waters purest heaven in earth reveal;
Cares, begone; unrest, go packing; come, contentment with the light;
Take the omen that the morning shall be gain upon the night.

⁠Spectator.Blomfield Jackson