We paused for some time, looking up at its solid bulk, which seemed to touch the gathering clouds.
THE CATHEDRAL, LAUSANNE.
“I brought you here especially,” continued Will, “because one of Switzerland’s few poets praises its aspect from this spot. He says something like this: ‘It is a great crag fixt there. Contemplate it when heavy clouds are passing over. Standing below it and letting your eye follow the radiant field which creeps up to its flanks, you imagine that it grows larger amid the wild clouds which it tears as they fly over, leaving it unshaken. You might believe yourself in some Alpine valley, over which towers a solitary peak while around it cluster the mists driven by the wind.’ He grows still more enthusiastic at the beauty of it when the chestnut-trees are in bloom, contrasting with the violet roofs below and surrounded by the azure aureole of the lake and the mountains and he speaks of its ‘graceful energy’ against the golden background.”
“Who is the poet?” I asked.
“Oh, Juste Olivier. I will introduce you to him some day—I mean to his works. He himself died in 1876, if I am not mistaken. I have the two volumes which his friends edited as a sort of memorial to him.”
“I didn’t suppose there were any Swiss poets—I mean great Swiss poets. Of course I know Hebel—”
“Yes, back in Gibbon’s time, the society founded by his friend Deyverdun discussed the question, ‘Why hasn’t the Pays de Vaud produced any poets?’ Juste Olivier deliberately set to work to fill the gap.”
“Did he succeed? He is not much known outside of Switzerland, is he?”
“Probably not; you shall see for yourself. But I remember one stanza on Liberty which has a fine swing to it—