All was strange. "Call progress toilsome? that were just insulting you!

How the trees must temper noontide! Ah, the thicket's sudden break!

What will be the morning glory, when at dusk thus gleams the lake?

Light by light puts forth Geneva: what a land—and, of the land,

Can there be a lovelier station than this spot where now we stand?

Is it late, and wrong to linger? True, to-morrow makes amends.

Toilsome progress? child's play, call it—specially when one descends!

There, the dread descent is over—hardly our adventure, though!

Take the vale where late we left it, pace the grass-path, 'mine,' you know!

Proud completion of achievement!" And we paced it, praising still