Classic Poem

S ERVOZ , sweet Servoz, there is not a vale,
On earth's green bosom nursed, more beautiful
Than thou. How lovely yon cerulean sky,
Glittering with blue and gold, and all the charms
It canopies:—the purple vines, which feed
On thy rich veins; the flowers, whose fragrant breath
Satiates the sense with sweetness; the tall groves,
With their eternal whisperings in thy ear
Of blessedness and joy; thy guardian fence
Of hills, which round thee rise, Alp over Alp,
As though each peer'd above his fellow, anxious
To snatch a glance at thee! And sweeter still
Thy vale's deep quiet, which no sound disturbs,
Save the sweet brawling of the silver Arve,
The wild bee's hum, the grasshopper's shrill note,
And distant tinklings, mingled with the lay
Which the swarth peasant o'er the furrow chants,
Echoed by village maids. But most I love
Thy church-yard's grassy precincts. In such spots
While the foot rambles, the soul treasures up
Truth's holiest lessons, and as the greensward
Springs freshest over graves, so there the heart
Brings forth its kindliest feelings, and distils
Dews precious as the drops which fall from heaven.