A MORNING ON ALP LUSGEN. 499 



Its purple bloom — the Alpine rose its glow ? 

 Shew us the power which fills each tuft of grass 

 With sentient swarms ? — the art transcending 



thought, 

 "Which paints against the canvas of the eye 

 These crests sublime and pure, and then transmutes 

 The picture into worship ? Science dumb — 

 Oh babbling Gnostic ! cease to beat the air. 

 We yearn, and grope, and guess, but cannot know. 



Low down, the yellow shingle of the Ehone 



Hems in the scampering stream, which loops the 



sands 

 In islands manifold. Beyond, a town, 

 Whose burnished domes flash back the solar blaze — 

 Proud domes for town so small ! But here erewhile 

 Unfurled itself the Jesuit oriflamme, 

 And souls were nurtured in the tonic creed 

 Of Loyola. Grand creed ! if only true. 

 Oh ! sorrowing shade of him, 1 who preached through 



life 

 Obedience to the Highest ! could men find 

 That Highest much were clear ! Yon tonsured monk 

 Will face the flames obedient to a power 

 Which he deems highest, but which you deem 



damned. 



Cut by a gorge, the vale beyond the town 



Breaks into squares of yellow and of green — 



Of rye and meadow. Through them winds the road 



Which opened to the hosts of conquering France 



Lombardian plains — sky-touching Simplon Pass — 



Flanked by the Lion Mountain to the left, 



1 Carlyle. 



