Tutor'd to meet the sternest shock,
Unshaken like his native rock.
Thrall only to religion's spell,
He hears the distant minster bell,
Pealing afar the holy hour,
Like chimes from some cathedral tower.
The rugged peaks that 'round him rise,
Keep him in friendship with the skies,
And tow'rd the light that never fails,
He moves along the heavenly trails.
Submissive to the chastening rod,
He kneels-but kneels alone to God.
Unterrifi'd by vain alarms,
He courts the calm above the storms,
And, o'er the clouds by lightnings riven,
Dips anchor in the blues of heaven.
Ye glorious Alps! The muse's flame
Hath long since given thee to fame!
No power to gild thy scenes divine
Can ever come from torch of mine.
What soul beneath the lamps of God
But loves the monks of Saint Bernard!
Thy storied passes still recall
Napoleon and Hannibal,
And dear to hearts beyond the sea,
Thy own proud knight of Liberty.
Land of the patriot, William Tell!
Liberty's children love thee well.
To them thy story never lags
For altar-shrines are all thy crags.
Forever may thy cantons be
Unfetter'd, like thy eagles-free!
The cradle of republics thou, "Vox Populi" is on thy brow.
Here Calvin, with Geneva's name,
First link'd democracy to fame-
First since the mediaeval gloom
Enshrouded Greece's glorious tomb-
Geneva, when, o'er towering crag,
She boldly lifted Freedom's flag,
Here planted from her golden ear
The seed-corn of America,
And, on the proud, historic page,
Wrote: "Here begins the modern age!"
Aye, in an Alpine eagle's nest,
Was warm'd the Giant of the West.
Let young republics, far and near,
Cherish the old republic here,
Where, pois'd upon these mountains tall,
Nestles the mother of them all,
Whose outstretch'd wings, in days of yore,
Taught infant eagles how to soar!
Interlaken, Switzerland,
September 20, 1921.
Is this the old world's classic hub
Of which we hear across the seas
And where, ensconc'd within his tub,
Once dwelt the old Diogenes?
Then tell me how it comes about
That such conditions here prevail
When old Diogenes passed out,
Pray tell me whither went the pail?
ON LOSING A POCKET-BOOK IN ITALY.
In distant days, fair Italy,
Land of green summer's tenderest look, When memory wafts me back to thee,
I'll think of my lost pocket-book. Not of Aeneas, nor of Rome;
Not of fam'd Hybla's hives of honey;
Each classic urn, in days to come,
Will whisper from its mold: "Your money!"
Though, in the world's commercial mart,
Mighty Britannia's flag may rule,
Give we, in this brave branch of art,
First rank to the Italian school.
Ye gods! To think that one like me
Should visit glorious Italy,
To find, among her ruins sublime,
There's many another thief than Time!
Stella d'Italia! What a pity,
Thy name must henceforth spell banditti.
From soaring high, on heavenly rockets,
You've dwindled down to pilfering pockets.
From courting conflict's direst dangers,
You've set yourself to fleecing strangers.
Once loved of all the gods wert thou,
But what is thy distinction now?
Peninsula of pilferings petty,
Where bandits banquet on spaghetti!
Thy battle-flag, where'er it floats,
Will bring to mind those stolen notes,
That gold watch, with its pendant key,
Besides my ticket back o'er-sea.
All your philosophy combin'd,
Can make me only half resign'd,
For, tribute which was not your due,
You've forc'd me to resign to you.
Translated-this the Tiber's roar:
"Trust these Italian rogues no more.
"Of honest men, now scarce a quorum
"Answers the roll-call of the Forum,
"And many a buccaneer today
"Steals softly on the Appian Way!"
Where is thy blush, O land of art?
Not satisfied to steal my heart-
A misdemeanor ten-fold worse,
You've ventured now to steal my purse.
For shame, to find you thus revealing,
Worst of the arts, the art of stealing.
But, no,-a gentler phrase I'll coin,
My pocket-book thou didst purloin.
Or didst thou only think to borrow
Expecting to pay back tomorrow?
If so, 'twas not by hook or crook
That you acquired what you took.
Excuse me, then,-for pity's sake!—
'Twas wholly mine, not your mis-take
But still the stubborn fact remains
That I have parted with my gains.
Who would have thought that such sad news Could ever rhyme with Virgil's muse?
That such a depredating host
Could ever march with Caesar's ghost?
That such brigandage, uncontrol'd,
Could root itself in Cato's mold?
The pack would only fare too well,
To wish them all in Dante's hell.
Surely these nondescript defendants
Cannot be Cicero's descendants!
These grabbing grafters, I opine,
Must all have sprung from Cataline.
'Tis scandalous, fair Italy,
That such a stigma rests on thee!
One which Vesuvius, yawning wide,
With lava twice has sought to hide!
Alas, that one should here behold,
Light-fingered artists, out for gold,
Wayfaring gentry of the dark,
Where genius lit her heavenly spark,
And where religion's voice divine
Still thunders from her central shrine.
Was virtue e'er so linked to vice
Or Hell so close to Paradise!
But every cloud is silver-lin'd,
No dire misfortune's all unkind.
Though rudely by this mishap shaken,
My passport still remain'd untaken.
Another hallelujah thrill-
My travel checks I carried still!
The ticket back-O fortune fine!-
Was made good by the steamship line.
But I recover'd that alone-
The wallet and the watch were gone!
Gone-who, alas, could tell me where?
Gone-little did I need to care-
Gone-the dim way of yonder urns,
From which no traveler returns.
So, fill'd with many a salty sigh,
I bade them both a long good-bye!
Deign'st thou to ask, inquiring man,
Where this took place? "Twas in Milan!-
Where falls upon the Lombard flowers
The shadow of cathedral towers,
And Leonardo, painter-bard,
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