he fought in vain;
    I called from the crags of the Passeir-glen,
    When the despot stood in my realm again,
    And Hofer sprang at the proud command
    And roused the men of the Tyrol land!

    III.

    I struggle up to the dim blue heaven,
    From the world, far down in whose 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 considerable size comes down the mountain, leaping from crag to crag till within forty or fifty feet of the bottom, where it is caught in a hollow rock, and flung upwards into the air, forming a beautiful arch as it falls out into the valley.  As it is whirled up thus, feathery curls of spray are constantly driven off and seem to wave round it like the fibres on an ostrich plume.  The sun shining through, gave it a sparry brilliance which was perfectly magnificent.  If I were an artist, I would give much for such a new form of beauty.