A CITY OF THE RHINE.
THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.
We came to fair Lucerne at even,—
How beauteous was the scene!
The snowy Alps like walls of heaven
Rose o’er the Alps of green;
The damask sky a roseate light
Flashed on the Lake, and low
[!-- illustration --] [!-- blank page --] Above Mt. Pilate’s shadowy height
Night bent her silver bow.
We turnèd towards the faded fane,
How many centuries old!
And entered as the organ’s strain
Along the arches rolled;
Such as when guardian spirits bear
A soul to realms of light,
And melts in the immortal air
The anthem of their flight;
Then followed strains so sweet,
So sadly sweet and low,
That they seemed like memory’s music,
And the chords of long ago.
A light wind seemed to rise;
A deep gust followed soon,
As when a dark cloud flies
Across the sun, at noon.
It filled the aisles,—each drew
His garments round his form;
We could not feel the wind that blew,
We could only hear the storm.
Then we cast a curious eye
Towards the window’s lights,
And saw the lake serenely lie
Beneath the crystal heights.
Fair rose the Alps of white
Above the Alps of green,
The slopes lay bright in the sun of night,
And the peaks in the sun unseen.
A deep sound shook the air,
As when the tempest breaks
Upon the peaks, while sunshine fair
Is dreaming in the lakes.
The birds shrieked on their wing;
When rose a wind so drear,
Its troubled spirit seemed to bring
The shades of darkness near.
We looked towards the windows old,
Calm was the eve of June,
On the summits shone the twilight’s gold,
And on Pilate shone the moon.
A sharp note’s lightning flash
Upturned the startled face;
When a mighty thunder-crash
With horror filled the place!
From arch to arch the peal
Was echoed loud and long;
Then o’er the pathway seemed to steal
Another seraph’s song;
And ’mid the thunder’s crash
And the song’s enraptured flow,
We still could hear, with charmèd ear,
The organ playing low.