And when thine infancy hath fled
And Time with woman's zone hath bound thee, If, in the path thou ’rt doomed to tread,
The thorns of sorrow lurk, and wound thee,
Be thine that exquisite relief
Which blossoms 'mid the springs of grief !
And like the many-tinted Bow,
Which smiles the showery
clouds
away, May Hope_Grief's Iris here below
Attend, and soothe thee on thy way, Till full of years--thy cares at restThou seek'st the mansions of the blest!
Young Sister of a mortal NINE,
Farewell !—Perchance a long farewell !
Though woes unnumbered yet be mine,
Woes, Hope may vainly strive to quell,
I'll half unteach my soul to pine,
So there be bliss for thee and THINE !
The lips that may forget God in the crowd,
Cannot forget him here, where he has built
For his own glory in the wilderness.
'Tis Night;-and Silence with unmoving wings Broods o'er the sleeping waters;—not a sound Breaks its most breathless hush. The sweet moon
flings
Her pallid lustre on the hills around,
Turning the snows and ices that have crowned
Since chaos reigned-each vast and searchless height,
To beryl, pearl, and silver ;-whilst, profound,
In the still, waveless lake, reflected bright,
And, girt with arrowy rays, rests her full orb of light.
The eternal mountains momently are peering
Through the blue clouds that mantle them ;-on high
Their glittering crests majestically rearing,
More like to children of the infinite sky,
Than of the dædal earth.Triumphantly,
Prince of the whirlwind !-Monarch of the scene !
Mightiest where all are mighty !—from the eye
Of mortal man half hidden by the screen
Of mists that moat his base from Arve's dark, deep
ravine,
Stands the magnificent Montblanc! His brow
Scarred with ten thousand thunders,-most sublime,
Even as though risen from the world below
To mark the progress of Decay: by clime,
Storm, blight, fire, earthquake injured not ! Like
Time,
Stern chronicler of centuries gone by,
Doomed by a heavenly fiat still to climb,
Swell and increase with years incessantly,
Then yield at length to thee, most dread Eternity!
Hark! There are sounds of tumult and commotion
Hurtling in murmurs on the distant air
Like the wild music of a wind-lashed ocean,
They rage, they gather now!-Yon valley fair
Still sleeps in moonlight loveliness, but there
Methinks a form of horror I behold
With giant-stride descending! 'Tis Despair,
Riding the rushing avalanche; now rolled
From its tall cliff,—by whom-what mortal may unfold?
Perchance a gale from fervid Italy
Startled the air-hung thunderer; or the tone
Breathed from some hunter's horn; or, it may be,
The echoes of the mountain cataract, thrown
Amid its voiceful snows, have thus called down
The overwhelming ruin on the vale.
Howbeit a mystery to man unknown,
'Twas but some Heaven-sent power that did prevail For an inscrutable end, its slumbers to assail.
Madly it bursts along, even as a river
That gathers strength in its most fierce career ;
The black and lofty pines a moment quiver
Before its breath, but, as it draws more near,
Crash-and are seen no more! Fleet-footed Fear,
Pale as that white-robed minister of wrath,
In silent wilderment her face doth rear;
And having gazed upon its blight and scathe,
Flies with the swift Chamois from its death-dooming
path.
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