John Kenyon - Upper Austria lyrics

We loved that Upper Austrian land; And who, that knows, would love it less? Which, as it seems, alike the hand Of God and man conspire to bless. His stream-dispensing hills, that tower, Man's happy, lowly, household bower, On sunny slope, in quiet dell, These well may win a fond farewell. How may we e'er forget the power Of those huge hills, at sunset hour? Peak and black ridge upheaved on high Athwart the gorgeous evening sky, While brightest waves beneath were rolled In amethyst or living gold. Or how the beams that loved to wake With morning touch Gemunden's lake; Or that pale moon which paused to light Dark Traunstein's solitary height? Nor more, Fair Land! may we forget Thy Happy with thy Lovely met. Those rural dwellings snug and warm, And strong to meet the winter storm. With casement green, and vine around; Each in its plot of garden ground. The most—beneath. But some that creep Where the sun beckons up the steep; Near neighbours to the beechen grove, Which mingles with the pines above. And every little mountain-plain, Of herb profuse or waving grain; Where all that eye beholds is rife With signs of well-contented life. O Liberty! thou sacred name! Whate'er reproach may thee befall, From judgment just or spiteful blame, To thee I cling—on thee I call. And, yet, thou art not All in All; And, e'en where thou art worshipp'd less, In spite of check, in spite of thrall, Content may spring, and happiness. And tho', man's rightful claim to cheer, Thy fuller beams be wanting here; Yet happy they, if right I spell, The folk within this land who dwell. Here no hard look, no dogged eye, Meets, to repel, the pa**er by; But observation loves to scan Mild greetings sped from man to man; Bland courtesies; kind words that fall From each to each, and all to all. And here is woman's bending grace, That bends reply; and answering face, With servile smile not falsely deckt, But honest smile from self-respect. While peasant boy, with curly pate, And arm surcharged with book and slate, Gives frank reciprocating look, The fruit—I ween—of slate and book. Nor lack there signs to speak a sense Imbibed of holier influence. For if there be or nook or spot More lovely than the rest; Beside the brook, beneath the grot, Some chapel neat is drest; Whenceforth the Virgin-Mother seen, In azure robe depict' or green, From that her ever-blessed face Sheds softer beauty o'er the place. Or He, who died on holy-rood, Is there, with thoughts of deeper mood To sanctify the solitude. 'Tis true—for me their accents rung In fact, as name, a stranger-tongue. A cloud, if words alone could speak, Thro' which no ray of thought might break. But soul of ready sympathy Finds semaphore in silent eye. And smiles that play from silent lips Clear what were else the heart's eclipse. And One was with me, who could spell Whate'er each tongue might say, And oft, I ween, their sense would tell In better phrase than they. And all that German land was known To him, familiar as his own. Their states, their dynasties he knew, Their folk, how many or how few; Each tale of conquest, battle, siege, Right, custom, tenure, privilege, With all that appertaineth; down From Cæsar or from King to Clown; And all that priest or jurist saith Of modes of law or modes of faith. And he had comment, full and clear, The fruit of many a travelled year; But more, by meditation brought From inner depths of silent thought; Or fresh from fountain, never dry, Of undisturbed humanity. When first among these hills we came, The Autumn lingered bright; But winter now begins to claim His old ancestral right. He speaks intelligible speech In the red yellow of the beech; And mingles with the breeze a touch Of polar air; in sooth not much; But such as serves to hint the day, When he shall rule, not far away. Fall'n leaves are straggling down the brook, With something of prophetic look; Whose little eddies circle round With more, methinks, than summer sound. While the strong rivers, now more strong, With dimmer current sweep along. And frequent gust and chilling rain, That meet the traveller on the plain, Are telling tale of wintry war Amid the topmost peaks—afar. Scarce longer, Hills of whitening brow! Man's summer day endures; And snowy flakes are falling, now, On other heads than yours; And colder, dimmer currents roll From Time or Chance to chill the soul. Our fervent youth's adventurous blood Defies or place or clime, And dares the mountain or the flood, Thro' winter's stormiest time. When sober eld, grown weak or wise, Seeks gentler scenes and milder skies. So we will seek a milder sky, By where slow roads up creep Atween the summits, cresting high, Of some huge Alpine steep; By easier way thenceforth to glide Adown the smooth Italian side. With choice before us, shall we go Where Stelvio winds his road, Above the realms of thawless snow, To where green things refuse to grow, Primeval frosts' abode? Then—beating cloud, and bitter wind, And torrent fierce left all behind— lDrop down to Como's southern bowers, And drink the breath of orange flowers? Or else, in idle boat reclined, Hang loitering round that little bay, Where erst inquiring Pliny lay Thro' long observant hours; Or haply nursed some inner dream, Beside his intermitting stream? Or rather shall we follow, now, The waters as they roll From rugged Brenner's lowlier brow Adown the steep Tyrol; To where Catullus loved to wake His sweetest harp on Garda's lake? Rich is the land, (all own its power,) The land for which we part, Italia!—rich in every dower Of nature and of art. And rich in precious memories—more— From fragrant urns of cla**ic lore. But whether 'mid Etrurian bowers, Where gallery spreads and palace towers; Or where, beneath cerulean day, Bright Naples clasps her double bay; Or where steep-fallen Anio roves, All peaceful now, thro' Tibur's groves; On thee, contentment's happy home, Land of bright stream and hill! Fair Austrian land! where'er we roam, Our hearts shall ponder still.