r felt affection's genuine flame;
That ever leaped at injured Freedom's name; 240
Would not for her dark foes feel honest hate,
And swell with indignation at her fate!
If thus her lot of sorrow have impressed
Grief and resentment on a stranger's breast,
How must he hear the cruel tale of death,
He who in these sad vales first drew his breath!
'Tis his perhaps in distant climes to roam,
Far from the shelter of his early home;
Yet still, as fancy paints the spot, he sees
His father's cottage, and the mountain trees; 250
Again by the wild streams he seems to rove;
He hears the voice of her who won his love,
His heart's first love; for her he prunes the vine,
Whose clustering leaves the rustic porch entwine;
The mountain's van together they ascend;
They see Alps piled on Alps far on extend;
They mark the casual sunshine light the mass, 257
Or vernal showers along the valley pass;
Whilst tinging the dark rocks, more lovely glow
The braided colours of heaven's humid bow.
But now the maid he loved, with whom all day
He used in summer o'er the hills to stray,
The faithful maid he loved--oh! cold despair,
Freeze his warm life-blood; and that thrilling air,
Which erst he sang, when, all alive to joy,
He carolled on the Alps, a shepherd boy,
Let him not hear it now, lest tears quick start,
And madness harrow up his broken heart!
How touching was the simple strain! The tear
Of memory started when it met the ear; 270
And he whose front was rough with many a scar,
Whose bold heart bounded at the trump of war,
Stood all dissolved in sadness at its tone,
Remembering him of pleasant seasons gone.
Perhaps full many a heavy hour had passed,
Since in its native nooks he heard it last;
And when again its well-known music thrilled,
A thousand thronging recollections filled
His soul, that, sick with longing, homeward roved;
Remote from scenes which most on earth he loved, 280
Cast on a world tempestuous, bleak, and wide,
More ardent for his once-loved hills he sighed;
And sighed again to think how it might fare
With sisters, brothers, friends, and parents there;
For be its music and its name forgot,
The desert is his home, and those he loved are not!

PART SECOND.

I was a chil