To The River Arve.

Supposed To Be Written At A Hamlet Near The Foot Of Mont Blanc.     Not from the sands or cloven rocks,     Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;     Nor earth, within her bosom, locks     Thy dark unfathomed wells below.     Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream     Begins to move and murmur first     Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam,     Or rain-storms on the glacier burst.     Born where the thunder and the blast,     And morning's earliest light are born,     Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast,     By these low homes, as if in scorn:     Yet humbler springs yield purer waves;     And brighter, glassier streams than thine,     Sent up from earth's unlighted caves,     With heaven's own beam and image shine.     Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees;     Warm rays on cottage roofs are here,     And laugh of girls, and hum of bees,     Here linger till thy waves are clear.     Thou heedest not, thou hastest on;     From steep to steep thy torrent falls,     Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone,     It rests beneath Geneva's walls.     Rush on, but were there one with me     That loved me, I would light my hearth     Here, where with God's own majesty     Are touched the features of the earth.     By these old peaks, white, high, and vast,     Still rising as the tempests beat,     Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last,     Among the blossoms at their feet.