Classic Poem

O UCHY , Lusonium's port, henceforth thou art
A strangely woven link in memory's chain;
A thought, associated in my heart
With leaden skies, cold winds and drizling rain,
And loneliness, which is almost a sense of pain.

We had been wandering for some pleasant days
Between fair Vevay and old Villeneuve:
Had slept at Clarens, where Lord Byron lays
The birthplace of such witching, wond'rous love
As is not found on earth, beneath it, nor above;

Had rambled over Chillon's hoary pile,
And seen the chain that bound poor Bonnivard
Had climbed a mountain many a weary mile
To see the donjon-keep of Chatelard;
And stood beside the tomb where slumbers St. Bernard;

Till, weary grown of bastion, bridge and moat,
Of ivy-covered tower and dungeon cave,
We had resolved to take the morning boat,
And, in despite of adverse wind and wave,
Retrace our footsteps home to beautiful Geneve.

For this, we hurried down from old Lausanne,
With trunks in order, hearts and hopes elate,
And, never dreaming of the cruel ban
Written against us in the book of fate,
Arrived at Ouchy's quay three minutes just too late.

Too late, too late — the rain was falling fast;
The mad lake lashing half its waves to spray;
A chill northeaster rushing rudely past;
The streets bemired; the sky a gloomy gray;
The steamboat gone, alas, and we compelled to stay!

But every desert waste has some green tree,
And darkest clouds conceal some ray of light,
And life hath flowers that mortals never see;
And so we cast about, as best we might,
To see which point of view in our mishap was bright.

And first, the fine old Auberge, where we stayed,
Was in a campaign, full of ancient trees
And winding walks and fairy bowers, made
For pleasant weather and luxurious ease;
But, in the pelting rain, of small avail were these

Then we could see the lake in wild uproar,
And watch the phases of the somber clouds,
And catch the outlines of the farther shore,
Where hoary Alpine peaks loomed up in crowds,
Like grim, gigantic ghosts, enwrapped in murky shrouds.

And then there was a castle by the quay,
With curious windows laced with iron bars,
Dark vaults, paved courts, and watch-towers tall and gray;
A brave old stronghold of the feudal wars,
A relic full of years and honorable scars.

I tried to people it with warlike men,
Armed with broad battle-axes and long bows;
I held my breath to listen, now and then,
For sounds of hurrying feet and sturdy blows;
But Fancy would not wake, nor dream in her repose.

And then I turned away and tried to woo
The timid muse to weave a woof of rhyme;
But I could find no subject, old nor new,
Merry nor serious, simple nor sublime,
That would evolve a thought, or wring from words a chime.

And so I counted o'er and o'er again
The lofty loopholes in the old square towers;
And tried to learn the music of the rain,
And sympathized with piteous-looking flowers;
And so the day dragged on its lonely weary hours.

Thus, ancient Ouchy, were the linkets wrought
Of that electric chain that surely binds
Thy somber aspect to my world of thought;
And faithful memory evermore assigns
Thy name a place among my life's far pilgrim shrines.