ose breast are driven
The props of my pillared throne;
And the rosy fires of morning glow
Like a glorious thought, on my brow of snow,
While the vales are dark and lone!
Ere twilight summons the first faint star,
I seem to the nations who dwell afar
Like a shadowy cloud, whose every fold
The sunset dyes with its purest gold,
And the soul mounts up through that gateway fair
To try its wings in a loftier air!
The finger of God on my brow is pressed--
His spirit beats in my giant breast,
And I breathe, as the endless ages roll,
His silent words to the eager soul!
I prompt the thoughts of the mighty mind,
Who leaves his century far behind
And speaks from the Future's sun-lit snow
To the Present, that sleeps in its gloom below!
I stand, unchanged, in creation's youth--
A glorious type of Eternal Truth,
That, free and pure, from its native skies
Shines through Oppression's veil of lies,
And lights the world's long-fettered sod
With thoughts of Freedom and of God!

When, at night, I looked out of my chamber-window, the silver moon of
Italy, (for we fancied that her light was softer and that the skies were
already bluer) hung trembling above the fields of snow that stretched in
their wintry brilliance along the mountains around. I heard the roar of
the Ticino and the deepened sound of falling cascades, and thought, if I
were to take those waters for my guide, to what glorious places they
would lead me!

We left Airolo early the next morning, to continue our journey down the
valley of the Ticino. The mists and clouds of Switzerland were exchanged
for a sky of the purest blue, and we felt, for the first time in ten
days, uncomfortably warm. The mountains which flank the Alps on this
side, are still giants--lofty and bare, and covered with snow in many
places. The limit of the German dialect is on the summit of St. Gothard,
and the peasants saluted us with a "_buon giorno_" as they passed. This,
with the clearness of the skies and the warmth of the air, made us feel
that Italy was growing nearer.

The mountains are covered with forests of dark pine, and many beautiful
cascades come tumbling over the rocks in their haste to join the Ticino.
One of these was so strangely beautiful, that I cannot pass it without a
particular description. We saw it soon after leaving Airolo, on the
opposite side of the valley. A stream of