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It lies before me now, as when the train
Follow'd the windings of its pine-dark shore,
That lovely morn of June; I see once more

Its shining breadth, a crystal without stain;

The snow-fleck'd mountains rear their crests again,
And wooded islets tremble, as of yore,
In the clear wave; the whole bright landscape o'er

Still sleeps the smile that on it then hath lain.

Fair Jemtland lake! Here, 'neath the smoky pall

Of the grim town, I ache at thought of thee;
Thy vision seems to uplands bright to call

And purer airs, in whose serenity
Life's burden from th' enfranchised soul might fall

Like a smooth pebble in thy crystal sea.

November, 1886.

(bygdo, Christiania.)

Receive me to your shades, O silent pines!
Let me awhile myself forget, and all
The deep unrest that holds me for its thrall,

The while to death this summer day declines,

And through your solemn aisles serenely shines
The bright eve-tinted sea, whose waters fall
With sound most magical, most musical,

On the low cliff which the fair isle confines.

Summer, I said; but autumn comes apace.

Gone are the forest flowers, save bluebells few
To match with crimson fruits in autumn's wreath.

For me, alas! life's flower is withering too.
Ah! which is sadder, hope's decline or day's?

Departed summer, or the spirit's death?


Ah! 'twas no time to rouse a poet's song,
When Avant saw me take the mountain way;
No "sun-warm'd firs " were those, all gaunt and gray,

Soon lost the peak's enshrouding mists among!

Alas! the path was drear, the path was long!
Thick lay the snow beneath the joyless day
On the bleak pass; whence rose a bird of prey—.

Sole creature there—and flapp'd his pinions strong.

Yet none the less of the sweet bard I thought,
Whose pure imagination, feeling deep,

Have dower'd Jaman with a magic dower; *
And though to me no summer gentians brought
Their gift of " yellow spires," yet still I keep,

Cull'd from beneath the snows, a golden flower. Chateau D'oex, May 27, 1887.

* See "Stanzas in Memory of the Author of Obcrmann" and "Obermann once more," in Matthew Arnold's Poems.


It blossom'd once amid the pastures green

Of high-perch'd Miirren, and the summits bright Greeted its birth upon that lonely height,

From their lone stations in the blue serene.

O'er it the Jungfrau glisten'd, maiden-queen
Of Switzer snows; out of the realm of night
Rose the Black Monk, all seam'd with cataracts

Fitfully sounding o'er the fell ravine.

Poor flower my hand has pluck'd, my book has press'd! . Bright purple bell, torn from those pastures fair, And the rich fragrance of that Alpine air!

Sad is thy fate—and yet not all unblest:
Thou mindest one sad mortal of a day,
Which, like those snowy peaks, will shine alway.


We wander'd on the mountains, by the side

Of those two sparkling brooks, which rising single, Dash down their pine-hung gorges ere they mingle

And one full stream into the ocean glide.

Our souls were lifted by the prospects wide,

The mountain freshness made our blood to tingle. Then, down we passed, and lo ! the sand and shingle,

And tameless heaving of the salt sea tide.

But as we came where those two rivers shy

Are blent for ever in the valley sweet, Then said I, " Dearest, thus have thou and I

Traversed life's hill with painful, lonely feet;

Now, e'en as these, heart join'd with heart, we'll greet The solemn ocean of eternity."

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