To A Friend

On her return from Europe.     How smiled the land of France     Under thy blue eye's glance,     Light-hearted rover     Old walls of chateaux gray,     Towers of an early day,     Which the Three Colors play     Flauntingly over.     Now midst the brilliant train     Thronging the banks of Seine     Now midst the splendor     Of the wild Alpine range,     Waking with change on change     Thoughts in thy young heart strange,     Lovely, and tender.     Vales, soft Elysian,     Like those in the vision     Of Mirza, when, dreaming,     He saw the long hollow dell,     Touched by the prophet's spell,     Into an ocean swell     With its isles teeming.     Cliffs wrapped in snows of years,     Splintering with icy spears     Autumn's blue heaven     Loose rock and frozen slide,     Hung on the mountain-side,     Waiting their hour to glide     Downward, storm-driven!     Rhine-stream, by castle old,     Baron's and robber's hold,     Peacefully flowing;     Sweeping through vineyards green,     Or where the cliffs are seen     O'er the broad wave between     Grim shadows throwing.     Or, where St. Peter's dome     Swells o'er eternal Rome,     Vast, dim, and solemn;     Hymns ever chanting low,     Censers swung to and fro,     Sable stoles sweeping slow     Cornice and column!     Oh, as from each and all     Will there not voices call     Evermore back again?     In the mind's gallery     Wilt thou not always see     Dim phantoms beckon thee     O'er that old track again?     New forms thy presence haunt,     New voices softly chant,     New faces greet thee!     Pilgrims from many a shrine     Hallowed by poet's line,     At memory's magic sign,     Rising to meet thee.     And when such visions come     Unto thy olden home,     Will they not waken     Deep thoughts of Him whose hand     Led thee o'er sea and land     Back to the household band     Whence thou wast taken?     While, at the sunset time,     Swells the cathedral's chime,     Yet, in thy dreaming,     While to thy spirit's eye     Yet the vast mountains lie     Piled in the Switzer's sky,     Icy and gleaming:     Prompter of silent prayer,     Be the wild picture there     In the mind's chamber,     And, through each coming day     Him who, as staff and stay,     Watched o'er thy wandering way,     Freshly remember.     So, when the call shall be     Soon or late unto thee,     As to all given,     Still may that picture live,     All its fair forms survive,     And to thy spirit give     Gladness in Heaven