'Twas there; and down along the brink he led
To Victory!-Desaix,1 who turned the scale,
Leaving his life-blood in that famous field,
(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot
In the blue haze) sleeps, as you saw at dawn,
Just where we entered, in the Hospital-church."
So saying, for a while he held his peace,
Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy;
But soon, the danger passed, launched forth again.
ORASSE was in his three-and-twen. tieth year;
Graceful and active as a stag just
roused;
Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech,
Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up
Among the hunters of the Higher Alps;
Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness,
Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies,
Arising (so say they that dwell below)
From frequent dealings with the Mountain-Spirits.
But other ways had taught him better things;
And now he numbered, marching by my side,
The great, the learned, that with him had crossed
The frozen tract—with him familiarly
Thro' the rough day and rougher night conversed
In many a chalet round the Peak of Terror,2
Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn, and Rosenlau,
And Her, whose throne is inaccessible,3
Who sits, withdrawn in virgin-majesty,
1 c Many able men have served under me; but none like him He loved glory for itself."
Rolled its long thunder; and a sudden crash,
Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear
Told that far-down a continent of Ice
Had burst in twain. But he had now begun ;
And with what transport he recalled the hour
When, to deserve, to win his blooming bride,
Madeleine of Annecy, to his feet he bound
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod
The Upper Realms of Frost; then, by a cord
Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bright,
And gathered from above, below, around,
The pointed crystals!-Once, nor long before,1
(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet,
And with an eloquence that Nature gives
To all her children-breaking off by starts
Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule
Drew his displeasure), once, nor long before,
Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg,
He slipped and fell; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding insensibly from ledge to ledge,
From deep to deeper and to deeper still,
Went to the Under-world! Long-while he lay
Upon his rugged bed-then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever!
For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw
Innumerable branches of a Cave,
Winding beneath that solid Crust of Ice;
With here and there a rent that showed the stars!
What then, alas, was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers,
M. Ebel mentions an escape almost as miraculous. Christian Boren, propriétaire de l'auberge du Grindelwald, eut le malheur de se jeter dans une fente du glacier, en le traversant avec un troupeau de moutons qu'il ramenoit des pâturages de Bäniseck. Heureusement qu'il tomba dans le voisinage du grand torrent qui coule dans l'intérieur, il en suivit le lit par dessous les voûtes de glace, et arriva au pied du glacier. Cet homme est actuellement encore en vie."-Manuel du Voyageur.
Strewn with the bones of miserable men,
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round;
When hark, the noise as of some mighty Flood
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon returned, and, fearless from despair,
Dashed down the dismal Channel; and all day,
If day could be where utter darkness was,
Travelled incessantly; the craggy roof
Just over-head, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength,
Lashing him on. At last as in a pool
The water slept; a pool sullen, profound,
Where, if a billow chanced to heave and swell,
It broke not; and the roof, descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
His journey ended; when a ray divine
Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her
Whose ears are never shut, the blessed Virgin,
He plunged and swam-and in an instant rose,
The barrier passed, in sunshine! Through a vale,
Such as in Arcady, where many a thatch
Gleams thro' the trees, half-seen and half-em-
bowered,
Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
The Young were dancing ('twas a festival-day)
All in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madeleine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all and varying, as he spoke,
With hope and fear and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.
The tale was long, but coming to a close, When his wild eyes flashed fire; and, all forgot, He listened and looked up. I looked up too; And twice there came a hiss that thro' me thrilled!
Had roused his fellows And all were gone. changed;
A Chamois on the cliff
with that cry of fear,
But now the theme was
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes,
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay,
(His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung,
His axe to hew a stair-way in the ice)
He tracked their wanderings.
Where the next step had plunged them into air,
Long had they stood, locked in each other's arms,
Amid the gulfs that yawned to swallow them;
Each guarding each through many a freezing hour,
As on some temple's highest pinnacle,
From treacherous slumber. Oh, it was a sport
Dearer than life, and but with life relinquished!
“My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds.
As for myself," he cried, and he held forth
winding-sheet-for I shall have no other!
"this do I call
And he spoke truth.
He lay among these awful solitudes,
Within a little month
(Twas on a glacier-half-way up to heaven)
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out The way he went at parting, but he came not; Long fear to close her eyes, from dusk till dawn Plying her distaff through the silent hours, Lest he appear before her-lest in sleep, If sleep steal on, he come as all are wont, Frozen and ghastly blue or black with gore, To plead for the last rite.
MARGUERITE DE TOURS.
OW the grey granite, starting through the snow,
Discovered many a variegated moss1
That to the pilgrim resting on his staff
Shadows out capes and islands; and ere long
Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live
In lower regions, and delighted drink
The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues,
With their diminutive leaves covered the ground.
There, turning by a venerable larch,
Shivered in two yet most majestical
With his long level branches, we observed
A human figure sitting on a stone
Far down by the way-side—just where the rock
Is riven asunder, and the Evil One
Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument?
Built in one night, from which the flood beneath,
Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard,
And seen as motionless!-Nearer we drew;
And lo, a woman young and delicate,
Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot,
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand,
In deepest thought. Over her tresses fair,
Young as she was, she wore the matron-cap;
And, as we judged, not many moons would
change
Ere she became a mother. Pale she looked,
Yet cheerful; though, methought, once, if not
twice,
2 Almost every mountain of any rank or condition has such a bridge. The most celebrated in this country is on the Swiss side of St. Gothard.
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