In the still sepulchre of my own mind, - I am, and I can never cease to be. O thou that readest! take this parable Home to thy bosom; think as I have thought, And feel as I have felt, through all the changes, Which Time, Life, Death, the world's great actors, wrought, While centuries swept like morning dreams before me, And thou shalt find this moral to my song: Thou art, and thou canst never cease to be: What then are time, life, death, the world to thee? THE ALPS; A REVERIE. PART I. Day. THE mountains of this glorious land That gilds their diadems of snow; Their peaks in ether glow. Their silent presence fills my soul, When to the horizontal ray The many-tinctured vapours roll In evanescent wreaths away, |