If Helvetia has seen you amid her wild scenes, Feel the pleasure that knows no alloy; And her hills and dark forests, her rocks and ravines, Then hasten with me to those scenes once again, We will clamber together the steep; We will tread the rude path, and look down on the glen, Where the torrent rolls rapid and deep. The bright sunbeams are glancing amid the high trees, O how sweet is the breath of the fresh mountain-breeze, Now winds the rough road o'er the rude one-arch'd bridge, And St. Bernard far towering above the high ridge, Can the wand'rer advance without feelings of dread, 'Mid the scenes that now crowd on his sight; While the menacing cliffs bend and frown o'er his head, And the cataract pours on his right: Where the pines of the forest are stunted and sere, And the rugged road seldom is traced; Where the rocks are all barren, the mountain all drear, And the valley all desert and waste: Where no music is heard but the shrill Alpine blast, And the roar of the cataract's fall, And the howl of the wolf for his savage repast, And the echo that answers to all? In a desert like this well might Piety's hand For the Cross shall yet hallow this desolate land, But the snows gather round, and the sun has long ceas'd To enliven the comfortless day; And the mist on the mountain's high top is increas'd And half-choked is the torrent's rough way. See the avalanche has fallen-it lies far and wide; For it swept down in thunder the forest's high pride, And it roll'd on relentless, and buried the cot, Nor has left to kind Pity a trace of the spot, But the pine trees it shiver'd lie low in its wreck, It is past; but the scene is more frightful and drear: Not a point of the gray granite rock can appear Not a floweret can flourish below. And the traveller advances with caution and dread, In his dubious and desolate way; For who knows but the avalanche may burst o'er his head, Or the snow-cover'd gulf may betray? Yet more steep is the mountain, more rude is the blast, Vegetation long since feebly bourgeon'd her last, Ev'n frozen and hush'd is the torrent's loud foam, The wild chamois alone will here venture to roam, Every track is long lost of the steep narrow way, And his senses are numb'd by the chill mountain air, But resist, weary pilgrim! 'tis death lays the snare, Yet advance for a while, and the danger is past, For St. Bernard's bleak summit is nigh, Where, tho' beats the dread tempest, and roars the rude blast His white front looks unhurt to the sky. The high summit is gain'd, and fair Charity's hand, Has invited the wanderer in: Who would hope she could dwell in this desolate land, Where no creature, no comfort is seen? But the mountain's high summit no longer is drear, Hospitality ventures to smile even here, And to soothe the worn traveller to rest. HAIL, gentle Winds! I love your murmuring sound; The willows charm me, wavering to and fro; And oft I stretch me on the daisied ground, And give the landscape round a sweeter grace, Her children dearly love your whispering charms: Aud at this moment many a weed ye wave, BARTON. YE viewless Minstrels of the sky! To me oft has your power, or play, Unearthly thoughts supplied. Awful your power! when by your might, Graceful your play! when, round the Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower, Still, thoughts like these are but of earth, Ye come !-we know not whence! |