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184
On the Alps.
Up thro' long sweeping mists of nascent morn,By trail of quaint hay-sledge, with patient tread
We clomb the veilèd heights, while overhead,
Thro' gap of vapours by the young wind torn,
Visions of sunlit snow were dimly born.
We heard the hurtling of the torrent-bed,
The tinkling bells of kine that unseen fed,
The bellowing of the far Alp's strident horn.
So sped long hours, mid' changeful fears and hopes;
Then on the heights one infinite surprise,
Marvels of fairest flowers upon the slopes,
And awful splendours of the earth and skies.
O God, a life not unlike this I pray:
Dim fears, calm toil, and then—pure light of day!
(1885.)
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