Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep,
Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep,
Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high
Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky.

Broke only by the melancholy sound

Save that, the stranger seen below, ...

When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas,
Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal breeze,
When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear,
And emerald isles to spot the heights appear,

When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread
Spring up, his choicest wealth around him spread,

The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale,
To silence leaving the deserted vale,

Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage,
And pastures on, as in the Patriarch's age:

O'er lofty heights serene and still they go,

They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed,
Rocked on the dizzy larch's narrow tread;
Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd,
That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd.

—I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps
To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps,
Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws,
The fodder of his herds in winter snows.

... to what tradition hoar
Transmits of days more blest ...

Then Summer lengthened out his season bland,
And with rock-honey flowed the happy land.

Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed
Out of the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode.

Continual fountains ...

Nor Hunger forced the herds from pastures bare
For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare.

Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand
Three times a day the pail and welcome hand.

Thus does the father to his sons relate,
On the lone mountain top, their changed estate.

But human vices have provoked the rod

... whose vales and mountains round

... to awful silence bound.
A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide
And bottomless, divides the midway tide.
Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear
The pines that near the coast their summits rear;
Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant shore
Bounds calm and clear the chaps still and hoar;
Loud thro' that midway gulf ascending, sound
Unnumber'd streams with hollow roar profound:

Mount thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds,
And talking voices, and the low of herds,
The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell,
And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell.

Think not, suspended from the cliff on high,
He looks below with undelighted eye.

—No vulgar joy is his, at even tide
Stretch'd on the scented mountain's purple side.

While Hope, that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn,

... by vestal ...

... native ...

He marches with his flute, his book, and sword;

... wonderous ...

... glorious ...

Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultured soul
Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll;
To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain,

And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by,

Where the dread peal ...

—When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell,
Alps overlooking Alps their state up-swell;
Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Storms,
Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms,

—Great joy, by horror tam'd, dilates his heart,
And the near heavens their own delights impart.

Fear in his breast with holy love unites,
And the near heavens impart their own delights.

That hut which from the hills his eyes employs
So oft, the central point of all his joys,

... his eye ...

And as a swift, by tender cares opprest,
Peeps often ere she dart into her nest,
So to the untrodden floor, where round him looks
His father, helpless as the babe he rocks,
Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair,

Where, ...

Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound.

Content ...

... consecrate ...

"Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head
Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed,
Last night, while by his dying fire, as clos'd
The day, in luxury my limbs repos'd,
Here Penury oft from misery's mount will guide
Ev'n to the summer door his icy tide,
And here the avalanche of Death destroy
The little cottage of domestic Joy.

... a Swain, upon whose hoary head
The "blossoms of the grave" were thinly spread,

... a thoughtful Swain, upon whose head

But, ah! the unwilling mind ...

The churlish gales, that unremitting blow
Cold from necessity's continual snow,

To us ...

... a never-ceasing ...

The father, as his sons of strength become
To pay the filial debt, for food to roam,

From his bare nest ...