Iv

Have you the Giesbach seen? a fall In Switzerland you say, that’s all; That, and an inn, from which proceeds A path that to the Faulhorn leads, From whence you see the world of snows. Few see how perfect in repose, White green, the lake lies deeply set, Where, slowly purifying yet, The icy river-floods retain A something of the glacier stain. Steep cliffs arise the waters o’er, The Giesbach leads you to a shore, And to one still sequestered bay I found elsewhere a scrambling way. Above, the loftier heights ascend, And level platforms here extend The mountains and the cliffs between, With firs and grassy spaces green, And little dips and knolls to show In part or whole the lake below; And all exactly at the height To make the pictures exquisite. Most exquisite they seemed to me, When, a year after my degree, Passing upon my journey home From Greece, and Sicily, and Rome, I stayed at that minute hotel Six days, or eight, I cannot tell. Twelve months had led me fairly through The old world surviving in the new. From Rome with joy I passed to Greece, To Athens and the Peloponnese; Saluted with supreme delight The Parthenon-surmounted height; In huts at Delphi made abode, And in Arcadian valleys rode; Counted the towns that lie like slain Upon the wide Bœotian plain; With wonder in the spacious gloom Stood of the Mycenæan tomb; From the Acrocorinth watched the day Light the eastern and the western bay. Constantinople then had seen, Where, by her cypresses, the queen Of the East sees flow through portals wide The steady streaming Scythian tide; And after, from Scamander’s mouth, Went up to Troy, and to the South, To Lycia, Caria, pressed, atwhiles Outvoyaging to Egean isles. To see the things, which, sick with doubt And comment, one had learnt about, Was like clear morning after night, Or raising of the blind to sight. Aware it might be first and last, I did it eagerly and fast, And took unsparingly my fill. The impetus of travel still Urged me, but laden, half oppress’d, Here lighting on a place of rest, I yielded, asked not if ’twere best. Pleasant it was, reposing here, To sum the experience of the year, And let the accumulated gain Assort itself upon the brain. Travel’s a miniature life, Travel is evermore a strife, Where he must run who would obtain. ’Tis a perpetual loss and gain; For sloth and error dear we pay, By luck and effort win our way, And both have need of every day. Each day has got its sight to see, Each day must put to profit be; Pleasant, when seen are all the sights, To let them think themselves to rights. I on the Giesbach turf reclined, Half watched this process in my mind, Watch the stream purifying slow, In me and in the lake below; And then began to think of home, And possibilities to come.

Brienz, on our Brienzer See From Interlaken every day A steamer seeks, and at our pier Lets out a crowd to see things here; Up a steep path they pant and strive; When to the level they arrive, Dispersing, hither, thither, run, For all must rapidly be done, And seek, with questioning and din, Some the cascade, and some the inn, The waterfall, for if you look, You find it printed in the book That man or woman, so inclined, May pass the very fall behind; So many feet there intervene The rock and flying jet between; The inn, ’tis also in the plan (For tourist is a hungry man), And a small salle repeats by rote, A daily task of table d’hôte, Where broth and meat, and country wine Assure the strangers that they dine; Do it they must while they have power, For in three-quarters of an hour Back comes the steamer from Brienz, And with one clear departure hence The quietude is more intense. It was my custom at the top To stand and see them clambering up, Then take advantage of the start, And pass into the woods apart. It happened, and I know not why, I once returned too speedily; And, seeing women still and men, Was swerving to the woods again, But for a moment stopped to seize A glance at some one near the trees; A figure full, but full of grace, Its movement beautified the place. It turns, advances, comes my way; What do I see, what do I say? Yet, to a statelier beauty grown, It is, it can be, she alone! O mountains round! O heaven above! It is—Emilia, whom I love; ‘Emilia, whom I love,’ the word Rose to my lips, as yet unheard, When she, whose colour flushed to red, In a soft voice, ‘My husband,’ said; And Helston came up with his hand, And both of them took mine; but stand And talk they could not, they must go; The steamer rang her bell below; How curious that I did not know! They were to go and stay at Thun, Could I come there and see them soon? And shortly were returning home, And when would I to Helston come? Thus down we went, I put them in; Off went the steamer with a din, And on the pier I stood and eyed The bridegroom, seated by the bride, Emilia closing to his side.