UNTERWALDEN by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

NOW couch thyself where, heard with fear afar,
Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar;
Or rather stay to taste the mild delights
Of pensive Underwalden's pastoral heights.
Is there who mid these awful wilds has seen
The native Genii walk the mountain green?
Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal.
Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal?
While o'er the desert, answering every close,
Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes.
And sure there is a secret Power that reigns
Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes,
Naught but the chalets, flat and bare, on high
Suspended mid the quiet of the sky;
Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep,
And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep.
How still! no irreligious sound or sight
Rouses the soul from her severe delight.
An idle voice the sabbath region fills
Of deep that calls to deep across the hills,
And with that voice accords the soothing sound
Of drowsy bells, forever tinkling round;
Faint wail of eagle melting into blue
Beneath the cliffs, and pine-wood's steady sugh;
The solitary heifer's deepened low;
Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow.
All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh,
Blend in a music of tranquillity;
Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy
Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy.

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