The scented pines of Switzerland
Stand dark round thy green grave,—
Between the dusty vineyard-walls
Issuing on that green place,
The early peasant still recalls
The pensive stranger's face,—
And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date
Ere he plods on again;
Or whether, by maligner fate,
Among the swarms of men,—
Where between granite terraces
The blue Seine rolls her wave,
The Capital of Pleasure sees
Thy hardly-heard-of grave,—
Farewell! Under the sky we part,
In this stern Alpine dell.
O unstrung will! O broken heart!
A last, a last farewell!
OBERMANN ONCE MORE.
(COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)
Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d'un monde?
Glion? Ah! twenty years, it cuts
All meaning from a name!
White houses prank where once were huts;
Glion, but not the same!
And yet I know not! All unchanged
