"Fenced early in this cloistral round OBERMANN ONCE MORE. Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d'un monde ? LION? — Ah, twenty years, it cuts GL All meaning from a name! OBERMANN. White houses prank where once were huts. Glion, but not the same! And yet I know not. All unchanged The turf, the pines, the sky! The hills in their old order ranged! The lake, with Chillon by! And 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff And stony mounts the way, Their crackling husk-heaps burn, as if I left them yesterday. Across the valley, on that slope, The huts of Avant shine; Its pines under their branches ope Ways for the tinkling kine. Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass, Invite to rest the traveller there, Before he climb the pass, The gentian-flowered pass, its crown With yellow spires aflame, . Whence drops the path to Allière down, By their green river who doth change His birth-name just below; Orchard, and croft, and full-stored grange Nursed by his pastoral flow. Beyond this gracious bound, The cone of Jaman, pale and gray, See, in the blue profound! Ah, Jaman! delicately tall Above his sun-warmed firs, What thoughts to me his rocks recall! What memories he stirs ! And who but thou must be, in truth, Thou master of my wandering youth, But left this many a year! Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, Its warfare waged with pain! An eremite with thee, in thought Once more I slip my chain, And to thy mountain-chalet come, And lie beside its door, And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, And thy sad, tranquil lore. Again I feel its words inspire Their mournful calm, serene, Yet tinged with infinite desire For all that might have been, The harmony from which man swerved Made his life's rule once more! The universal order served! Earth happier than before! While thus I mused, night gently ran Down over hill and wood. Then, still and sudden, Obermann On the grass near me stood. Those pensive features well I knew, Imaged so oft, imaged so true! A shepherd's garb he wore, A mountain-flower was in his hand, A book was in his breast; Bent on my face, with gaze that scanned My soul, his eyes did rest. "And is it thou," he cried, 66 so long Held by the world, which we Loved not, who turnest from the throng Back to thy youth and me? "And from thy world, with heart opprest, Choosest thou now to turn? Ah me, we anchorites knew it best! Best can its course discern! |