LINES ON THE LATE N. M. ROTHSCHILD. 375 



of snow, frozen so hard that my feet made no impression as I walked 

 over it. While standing on the snow, a gaudy butterfly flew past 

 me. I marvelled to see the little fellow fluttering about in such a si- 

 tuation. From the Col de Balme is the best view of Mont Blanc, for 

 the sake of which I missed the fine scenery of the Tete Noire, another 

 pass to Martigny. Unfortunately some light clouds hung around the 

 giant, and the outline could scarcely be traced amid the vapour, so 

 that my labour was fruitless. After staying two hours in vain hopes 

 that the weather would clear up, I began my descent through a pirie- 

 forest. The incessant whizzing and buzzing of the cicalas almost 

 made me giddy. They were not here so noisy as in the ascent to 

 Chamouny, but they showed themselves on the path in great num- 

 bers. The*insect is formed somewhat as our grasshopper, but very 

 much larger. The body and head yellow, the back and wings of the 

 same colour, mottled with black or a very dark brown, and the under 

 side of the long hinder legs of an exquisitely bright scarlet. 



Having crossed the pine forest, half an hour's walk up-hill brought 

 me to the Col de Trent, whence to Martigny is a toilsome descent of 

 three hours on an uneven surface paved with broken granite. No- 

 thing can be more uneasy, or better calculated to interfere with the 

 comfort of the individual, or to prevent his enjoying the magnificent 

 prospect. On either side are lofty mountains, with a girdle of pine- 

 trees, and broken rocky summits, with occasionally a patch of snow, 

 and still more rarely a glacier with the muddy torrent rushing from 

 beneath it. Before you is the beautiful Vallais, like Chamouny, en- 

 closed by inaccessible mountains, with the Rhone meandering through 

 its level surface, and the village and bourg of Martigny at a short 

 distance from the foot of the mountain. From Martigny the road to 

 Sion for the first nine miles is perfectly straight, so that looking 

 down from above it seems like a white thread stretched across the 

 plain. I was right glad to arrive at my hotel after three hours' walk- 

 ing with my feet at an angle of 130 degrees with my shin-bones, 

 after the fashion of an opera dancer. 



LINES ON THE LATE N. M. ROTHSCHILD. 



WEALTH'S golden sceptre rules a prostrate world, 



And thou didst wield it, Rothschild, mighty Jew ! 

 Thrones have been propped by thee, and thou hast hurled 



Defiance in the face of kings; pierced through 

 The tyrant's heart, and made him bite thy chain, 



Despairing to annihilate or enslave. 

 But now the conqueror Death has stopped thy reign, 



And thou art tenanting the lowly grave ! 

 No more shall men turn pale at sight of thee, 



No more the anxious group thy nod await ; 

 Vacant the well-known spot, the pillar* free, 



The envious of thy fame, the would-be-great, 

 May fearlessly advance, and take his stand, 

 But who like thee, such homage to command ? 

 13th August, 1836. R. S. 



* Mr. Rothschild always occupied a certain spot on the Royal Exchange, and stood 

 with his back to the pillar alluded to. On one occasion, not very long since, a person 

 had the temerity to dispute his claim to this privilege, but was quickly ejected from 

 his usurped position 2 E 2 



