Assort itself upon the brain. Travel’s a miniature life, Travel is evermore a strife, Where he must run who would obtain. ’Tis a perpetual loss and gain; For sloth and error dear we pay, By luck and effort win our way, And both have need of every day. Each day has got its sight to see, Each day must put to profit be; Pleasant, when seen are all the sights, To let them think themselves to rights. I on the Giesbach turf reclined, Half watched this process in my mind, Watch the stream purifying slow, In me and in the lake below; And then began to think of home, And possibilities to come. Brienz, on our Brienzer See From Interlaken every day A steamer seeks, and at our pier Lets out a crowd to see things here; Up a steep path they pant and strive; When to the level they arrive, Dispersing, hither, thither, run, For all must rapidly be done, And seek, with questioning and din, Some the cascade, and some the inn, The waterfall, for if you look, You find it printed in the book That man or woman, so inclined, May pass the very fall behind; So many feet there intervene The rock and flying jet between; The inn, ’tis also in the plan (For tourist is a hungry man), And a small _salle_ repeats by rote, A daily task of _table d’hôte_, Where broth and meat, and country wine Assure the strangers that they dine; Do it they must while they have power, For in three-quarters of an hour Back comes the steamer from Brienz, And with one clear departure hence The quietude is more intense. It was my custom at the top To stand and see them clambering up, Then take advantage of the start, And pass into the woods apart. It happened, and I know not why, I once returned too speedily; And, seeing women still and men, Was swerving to the woods again, But for a moment stopped to seize A glance at some one near the trees; A figure full, but full of grace, Its movement beautified the place. It turns, advances, comes my way; What do I see, what do I say? Yet, to a statelier beauty grown, It is, it can be, she alone! O mountains round! O heaven above! It is—Emilia, whom I love; ‘Emilia, whom I love,’ the word Rose to my lips, as yet unheard, When she, whose colour flushed to red, In a soft voice, ‘My husband,’ said; And Helston came up with his hand, And both of them took mine; but stand And talk they could not, they must go; The steamer rang her bell below; How curious that I did not know! They were to go and stay at Thun, Could I come there and see them soon? And shortly were returning home, And when would I to Helston come? Thus down we went, I put them in; Off went the steamer with a din, And on the pier I stood and eyed The bridegroom, seated by the bride, Emilia closing to his side. V