A lonely chapel destined for the dead,
For such as, having wandered from their way,
Had perished miserably. Side by side,
Within they lie, a mournful company,

All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them;
Their features full of life yet motionless

In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change,
Though the barred windows, barred against the wolf,
Are always open!-But the North blew cold;
And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal,

I sate among the holy brotherhood

At their long board. The fare indeed was such

As is prescribed on days of abstinence,

But might have pleased a nicer taste than mine;
And through the floor came up, an ancient crone
Serving unseen below; while from the roof
(The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir)
A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling.
Its partial light on Apostolic heads,

And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet
Had changed not. Some were almost in the prime;
Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as they sate,
Ranged round their ample hearth-stone in an hour

Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile,
As children; answering, and at once, to all
The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth;
Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk
Music; and gathering news from them that came,
As of some other world. But when the storm
Rose, and the snow rolled on in ocean-waves,
When on his face the experienced traveller fell,
Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands,
Then all was changed; and, sallying with their pack
Into that blank of nature, they became

Unearthly beings. "Anselm, higher up,

Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long,

heir way,

r them;

ess

change,

gainst the wolf,

ew cold; meal,

e,

han mine;

cient crone

roof e fir) to fling

ne as yet

in the prime; y sate, : in an hour

And now, as guided by a voice from heaven,
Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence
Whose can it be, but his who never erred?1
A man lies underneath! Let us to work!-
But who descends MONT VELAN? 'Tis La Croix.
Away, away! if not, alas, too late.
Homeward he drags an old man and a boy,
Faltering and falling, and but half awaked,
Asking to sleep again." Such their discourse.
Oft has a venerable roof received me;

St. BRUNO'S once 2-where, when the winds were h
Nor from the cataract the voice came up,

You might have heard the mole work underground
So great the stillness there; none seen throughout,
Save when from rock to rock a hermit crossed
By some rude bridge-or one at midnight tolled
To matins, and white habits, issuing forth,
Glided along those aisles interminable,
All, all observant of the sacred law

Of Silence. Nor is that sequestered spot,
Once called "Sweet Waters," now "The Shady Va
To me unknown; that house so rich of old,
So courteous, and, by two that passed that way,4
Amply requited with immortal verse,

The Poet's payment.-But, among them all,
None can with this compare, the dangerous seat
Of generous, active Virtue. What though Frost
Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow
Thaw not, but gather-there is that within,
Which, where it comes, makes Summer; and, in th
Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath

1 Alluding to Barri, a dog of great renown in his day. He is he represented by a pencil that has done honour to many of his kind, who deserved it more. His skin is stuffed, and preserved in the Museu 2 The Grande Chartreuse. 3 Vallombrosa, formerly called Acq ARIOSTO and MILTON. Milton was there at the fall of the leaf.

erve

every step

instantly

ith songs,

ag, romising

At length, unchecked, unbidden, he stood still;
And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide,
Lowering his voice, addressed me: "Thro' this Gap
On and say nothing-lest a word, a breath
Bring down a winter's snow-enough to whelm.
The armed files that, night and day, were seen
Winding from cliff to cliff in loose array
To conquer at MARENGO. Though long since,
Well I remember how I met them here,
As the sun set far down, purpling the west;
And how NAPOLEON, he himself no less,
Wrapt in his cloak-I could not be deceived-
Reined in his horse, and asked me, as I passed,
How far 'twas to St. Remi. Where the rock
Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away,
Narrows almost to nothing at the base,
'Twas there; and down along the brink he led
To Victory!-DESAIX, 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.

He loved