The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

How glorious are the mountain-Kings! who overawe the soul,
And lift us into fellowship with their sublime control.
An era forms it in the hearts which first beneath them bow'd,
When haughtily some Alpine-peak out-soar'd the highest cloud.

They are not what the dull believe, a mass of speechless earth,
But with embodied eloquence proclaim their regal birth;
Like anthems mute but magical, to inward thought they praise
That Infinite of Architects, Who their foundation lays.

Be glory to the mountains! then,—what poetry they make
When canopied by lucid air, or mirror'd on the lake;
Or when the ravish'd pilgrim cries, from off some wooded brow,
“Three hundred cloven summits lift their ice-bound foreheads now!”

The throned Archangels who in bliss on seats of glory rest,
And through eternity behold the landscapes of the blest,
Can scarce, to our imperfect dream, sublimer views enjoy,
Than what these Alpine monarchs form,—the mountains of Savoy.

The magic of their whiteness seems miraculously pure,
And upward their ascending snows our lifted hearts allure;
And radiant are the icy spells their soaring masses wield,
When seventy leagues cannot o'ershade the dazzling sight they yield.

All glory to the ancient hills! which to the godless preach
Sermons of more stupendous power, than erring man can reach;
Dumb orators to sense they look, but how divinely grand
The deep significance they bear, to hearts that understand!

The stillness of their frozen trance is more than thunder's tone,
Resembling that celestial hush which deepen'd round the Throne
When silence through the heaven of heavens for half an hour there reign'd,
And seraphim before their God eternity sustain'd!

It is not that the clouds array with myriad-tinted hues
Those peaks of alabaster ice which pinnacle our views;

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Nor is it, that our sateless eyes are spell-bound by the scene
Of rocky scalps ten thousand feet above some black ravine:

Nor is it, that the glaciers lift their crags of gleaming snow
And move down in a noiseless march to meet the vale below;
Nor all the dreadful joy that chills the soul of him who braves
Montánvert! from thy summit vast, the ever-frozen waves:

Far more than this do mountain-spells to echoing minds impart
When through the veil of outer sense, they reach the central heart,—
There enter with mysterious power, like purities to reign,
And over all its hidden springs a moral influence gain.

Thus oft amid the crowded street, or some contracted room,
Or in that hour of mystic sway when all things wear a gloom,
The Alpine monarchs lift their peaks, and in remembrance rise,
And elevate our sunken hearts through their bewitching skies!

They cause our very souls to blush, to think how base and weak
Are half the fancied woes we feel, or morbidly would speak;
Until their awful summits seem to lift the rallied mind,
And bid it soar to peerless heights above depress'd mankind.

But what a sacred loftiness do regal mountains claim,
When we connect their giant forms with that undying fame
Which clings and cleaves to each and all celestial archives bring,—
The truths, that martyr'd seers foretell, or sainted harpers sing!

Then, glory to the sacred Hills! which rose in childhood's years,
And by their ever-awing names inspired our faith and fears,—
Moriah's mount, and Amalek, Gilboa and the scene
Of Hermon and of Horeb too, where God of old has been.

How Gilead and Gerizim's forms, with Lebanon, appeal,
And Ebal's, whence the curse roll'd down, to man's religious zeal,
And make us through believing awe invest a mountain's brow
With magic and with deathless might, beyond what lips avow.

And, who but recreant hearts forget, how much sublime event
Hath to the hills of Palestine a solemn beauty lent?
Behold the peaks of Ararat! for there the Ark did ride
And floated o'er a deluged world, which then our God denied.

And were not earth's primeval shrines upon lone mountains built?
Upon them rose the altars green, where offer'd blood was spilt;
There sacrifice from votive hearts, with incense-prayer was given,
And who forgets Moriah's hill, and Abram's crown from heaven!

And did not in deep thunder-tones the Decalogue descend
From Sinai's brow of burning gloom, and with dark conscience blend
Such horrors of unearthly sound, that pallid hosts must cry,
“Oh, let not God directly speak, or we the death must die!”

But neither what dread Moses saw, nor hoary Tishbite heard,
Hath ever man's responsive mind with such emotion stirr'd
As have those hills and heights divine, where Jesu pray'd and trod,
Who by the priesthood of His grace brings pardon'd man to God.

'Twas on some mountain where He met the Demon in that hour
When all the gather'd crafts of Hell combined their gloomy power;
And thus on hills of loneliness, in lofty hush afar
Emmanuel kept His midnight-watch, and pray'd beneath the star.

And when His form transfigured grew, with glory more than bright,
Which dazzled into dim eclipse the powers of mortal sight,

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'Twas Horeb in its soaring grace that witness'd what appear'd,
When God Himself unclosed the Heavens, and pale disciples fear'd.

But ah! of mountains all which speak to ears of list'ning Time
With tones of superhuman truth and eloquence sublime,
Dread mountain of The Crucified! in faith we turn to Thee,
And echo, with revering hearts, the name of “Calvary!”

And next to this eternal Mount, be that where Jesus taught
His sermon on Beatitude, with grace and glory fraught,—
Those lessons which divinely tell how pure that Heart must be,
Which hopes to hymn the Lamb above, and gaze on Deity!

So, when the Lord of light arose from out this world of gloom,
And re-ascended back to God, His splendour to assume,
Thy mountain, Olives! was the spot from whence He upward soar'd,
While underneath a cloudy shrine the prostrate band adored.

Then, glory to the mountain-Kings! they charm the brave and free,
Like monuments to God uprear'd, proclaiming liberty;
Religion, Law, and Grace combine, around their form to cast
A lofty spell of more than earth, while time and being last.

Lord of the Everlasting Hills! Thou life of nature's scene,
Whene'er upon some mountain-brow our musing steps have been,
Not seldom have such heights become, for mental sacrifice,
Like altars which from earth to heaven in lonely grandeur rise:

There in the hush of twilight-hour, oh, teach us how to pray,
And 'mid their sainted calm of scene adore the Truth and Way;
Till what begins in poesy, shall end in deepest prayer,
The Mountains into temples turn, and God be hallow'd there.