MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820

XIV. COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS

          DOOMED as we are our native dust
          To wet with many a bitter shower,
          It ill befits us to disdain
          The altar, to deride the fane,
          Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust
          To win a happier hour.

          I love, where spreads the village lawn,
          Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze:
          Hail to the firm unmoving cross,
          Aloft, where pines their branches toss!                     10
          And to the chapel far withdrawn,
          That lurks by lonely ways!

          Where'er we roam--along the brink
          Of Rhine--or by the sweeping Po,
          Through Alpine vale, or champain wide,
          Whate'er we look on, at our side
          Be Charity!--to bid us think,
          And feel, if we would know.