 | Julia Alpinula |  |
XXIV.
The thunder has its lull from riot,The morning storm its evening quiet;
The raving and rebellious Ocean,
Its crystal calm, its rest from motion;
The avalanche its silence, when
That thundering ball has rocked the glen;
For the following splendid and sublime description of Montblanc and the descent of an avalanche, written amidst the Alpine scenes where it was witnessed, I am indebted to the kindness of the friend, whose name has already graced this volume. The spirited stanzas themselves will be my best apology for their introduction in this place:
'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.
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 mist that moats his base from Arve's dark, deep ravine,
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 mist that moats his base from Arve's dark, deep ravine,
Stands the magnificent Montblanc!—his brow
Scarred by ten thousand thunders;—most sublime,
Even as though risen from the world below
To watch the progress of Decay;—by clime,—
Storm—blight—fire—earthquake injured not;—like Time,
Stern chronicler of centuries gone by,
Doomed by an awful fiat still to climb,
Swell, and increase with years incessantly,
Then yield at length to thee, most dread eternity!
Scarred by ten thousand thunders;—most sublime,
Even as though risen from the world below
To watch the progress of Decay;—by clime,—
Storm—blight—fire—earthquake injured not;—like Time,
Stern chronicler of centuries gone by,
Doomed by an awful 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 moonbright loveliness; but there,
Methinks a form of horror I behold
With giant stride descending! 'Tis Despair
Riding the rushing avalanche, now rolled
Form its tall cliff—by whom? what mortal may unfold!
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 moonbright loveliness; but there,
Methinks a form of horror I behold
With giant stride descending! 'Tis Despair
Riding the rushing avalanche, now rolled
Form 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.
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,
But, having gazed upon its blight and scathe,
Files with the wild Chamois from its death-dooming path!
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,
But, having gazed upon its blight and scathe,
Files with the wild Chamois from its death-dooming path!
The purple Simoom its light tread
When prostrate Caravans lie dead;
The earthquake its still under-tone,
Its whisper of the murders done.
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Of nations blends the rage of all,
Its hush of passions, and the sleep
Of energies once strong and deep.
The earthquake-shout which shook yon hill
Of pines, is over; all is still;
Save the cry of the shrill gale,
Sad as a shrieking spirit's wail;
Save the wild birds' flapping wings,
Now fluttering over lifeless things;
Save the lone gush of mountain springs;
And clamour of cascades that leap
Stainless from their aerial steep,
But rolling redly from the plain
Where lie the Proud and Mighty slain:
Rigid and nerveless every hand,
That grasped the battle-axe and brand;
Pallid each brow; each glazed eye set,
But scowling fierce defiance yet;
The fiery heart of former years,
With all its wishes, hopes, and fears,
Its pride—its pain—its might—its mirth—
A pulseless ball of wasting earth;
The plume and scarf by Beauty woven,
Daggled in blood; the helmet cloven;
The pennons proud, of yesterday
Borne by the gallant and the gay,
53
Forlornly waving in the wind.—
Another's harp may bear away
The blazon of that fierce affray,
But, Freedom! I will never show
Thy dread anatomy of woe.
| Julia Alpinula | |