Page:Translations (1834).djvu/167

Rh Seems, mid yon rugged mountain forms, (Like heav’n’s bow mid primeval storms) Of better hopes the token— Seems to a rifled land the trace Of peace, of glory, and of grace, When all around is broken! The earthquake, with its iron shock— That heaves the plain, that rends the rock, Flings the thick city like a cloud— All transiently thy face has ploughed! When tower and tent with death are teeming— Calm as the heav’ns around thee gleaming Sleeps thy unruffled lake, No record on its virgin spray Of storm or earthquake past away— No ripple on its mirror torn, Save what the passing mountain horn Might with its echoes wake, Or breath of deer that pants to slake The fever of the noontide hours, In thy pure waters—Llyn of flowers!— Still art thou calm, and clear, and bright— E’en in this hour of death and flight, When ey’ry flow’ret on thy brink Is doomed of war’s red tide to drink; As if thy waters did inherit A peaceful gloom—a pensive spirit From the lovely dead that rest Sepulchred within thy breast—