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CLARENS.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

KISSED by cerulean waters, Clarens sleeps,

Her head high pillowed on soft Alpine snows,

Where the dark-winding Rhone impetuous flows

Into Lake Leman, and in frenzy weeps,

Hid in her billowy bosom, in whose deeps

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Fury is vain, - even its turbid hue,

In journeyings begrimed, and torrent-leaps,

Is changed by magic to translucent blue.

Thy terraces how beautiful! thy hills,

With ivied oaks and sweet rose-laurel crowned;

Thy chestnut coppices, where passion found

Sweet solace, soothed by waterfalls and rills,

Inhaling incense, mountain dew distils,

And ravished by the loveliness around.

A. L. H.

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