Still my journey I pursued,
Climbing many a weary steep,
Whence the closing scene I view'd
With an eye that would not weep.

STANTZ-a melancholy pyre!

And her hamlets, blazed behind,
With ten thousand tongues of fire,
Writhing, raging in the wind.*

Flaming piles, where'er I turn'd,
Cast a grim and dreadful light;
Like funereal lamps they burn'd
In the sepulchre of night;

The town of STANTZ, and the surrounding villages, were burnt by the French on the night after the battle of UNDERWALDEN, and the beautiful valley was converted into a wilderness.

While the red illumined flood,
With a hoarse and hollow roar,

Seem'd a lake of living blood,
Wildly weltering on the shore.

'Midst the mountains far away,
Soon I spied the sacred spot,
Whence a slow consuming ray
Glimmer'd from my native cot.

At the sight my brain was fired,
And afresh my heart's wounds bled;
Still I gazed!the spark expired-
Nature seem'd extinct !-I fled.-

Fled; and, ere the noon of day,
Reach'd the lonely goat-herd's nest,

Where my wife, my children lay

Husband! Father!

-think the rest."

END OF THE FIFTH PART.

THE

WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND.

PART VI.

The Wanderer informs the Shepherd, that, after the example of many of his countrymen flying from the Tyranny of France, it is his intention to settle in some remote Province of America,

Shep. "Wanderer! whither wouldst thou roam
To what region far away

Bend thy steps to find a home,
In the twilight of thy day?"

Wand. "In the twilight of my day
I am hastening to the West;
There my weary limbs to lay,
Where the Sun retires to rest.

Far beyond the Atlantic floods,

Stretch'd beneath the evening sky,

Realms of mountains, dark with woods,

In Columbia's bosom lie.

There, in glens and caverns rude,

Silent since the world began,

Dwells the virgin Solitude,

Unbetray'd by faithless man;

Where a tyrant never trod,
Where a slave was never known,
But where Nature worships GOD
In the wilderness alone;

-Thither, thither would I roam;
There my children may be free:
I for them will find a home,

They shall find a grave for me.

Though my fathers' bones afar

In their native land repose,

Yet beneath the twilight star

Soft on mine the turf shall close.

Though the mould that wraps my clay,

When this storm of life is o'er,

Never since creation lay

On a human breast before ;

Yet in sweet communion there,

When she follows to the dead,

Shall my bosom's partner share

Her poor husband's lowly bed.

ALBERT'S babes shall deck our grave,

And my daughter's duteous tears

Bid the flowery verdure wave

Through the winter-waste of years."