ON THE PASS OF THE MAIDEN, JAPAN

Lo! Fujiyama's snowy cone
The green horizon bounds,
And Miajimi's sacred isle,
And Budda's temple-grounds.

Ah, once again thy voice is heard;
Again we keep our tryst,
As when upon the Switzer's hill
I stood amid the mist.

Within the garden's ordered walks
Thy name alone I hear,
And miss the gentle voice that calls
When none but I am near.

But where the mountain summits rise
Is ever sacred sod,
And here thy timid counsel breathes
A deep appeal to God.

Ah, least of all the many flowers
That on my path are set,
Read me thy Sermon on the Mount:
What should I not forget?

'Forget me not.' How simple seems
The counsel shyly given!
Let each interpret for himself
This voice of earth and heaven.

Ah! once on Albula's gray pass
I prayed that I might get,
With foresight of a darker day,
The sad leave to forget;

Nor knew, alas! how soon would come
Sore need to urge my prayer.
Ah, tender maidens of the hill
That constant sorrow share.

Forget? Ah, yes! the living fade
From memory, not the dead.
Thine are their voices as to-day
These alien hills I tread.