 | [Poems by Lathrop in] A masque of poets |  |
129
THE RHONE CRADLE.
(A Vignette of Travel.)
This is the fair bed of the infant Rhone,
A cradle broad with fruits and sunshine strown,
A dreamy valley guarded by tall shapes
They call the Alps; where miles of clustering grapes,
Purple of eye, in leafy garments green
Load down the hills, that near and nearer lean
To watch the rushing river and the small
Traffic of men close under that scarred wall
Of some free-booting baron's ancient tower.
Gone are the baron and his murderous power,
And like some uncouth beast of earliest time
The gray bones of the ruined castle climb
The steep, yet utterly inert remain,—
A fossil record, which the years disdain
To wipe away. Here once the Cæsar bore
His Roman eagle above the icy roar
Of mountain-torrents.
Many centuries passed;
But Gaul sent forth her eagle, at the last:
Napoleon's iron hand cut out a path
Across the rocky Simplon; poured his wrath
From out the clouds; and where the deep gorge breaks
Through caverned gloom, to reach the Lombard lakes,
His legions swept to Italy, to Rome,—
The conqueror's goal, the world-subduer's home.
A cradle broad with fruits and sunshine strown,
A dreamy valley guarded by tall shapes
They call the Alps; where miles of clustering grapes,
Purple of eye, in leafy garments green
Load down the hills, that near and nearer lean
To watch the rushing river and the small
Traffic of men close under that scarred wall
Of some free-booting baron's ancient tower.
Gone are the baron and his murderous power,
And like some uncouth beast of earliest time
The gray bones of the ruined castle climb
The steep, yet utterly inert remain,—
A fossil record, which the years disdain
To wipe away. Here once the Cæsar bore
His Roman eagle above the icy roar
Of mountain-torrents.
130
But Gaul sent forth her eagle, at the last:
Napoleon's iron hand cut out a path
Across the rocky Simplon; poured his wrath
From out the clouds; and where the deep gorge breaks
Through caverned gloom, to reach the Lombard lakes,
His legions swept to Italy, to Rome,—
The conqueror's goal, the world-subduer's home.
Lo, whatsoe'er befall or tribe or town,
The growing river still flows broadening down,
Not otherwise than when it first began;
Still young, still wild, though many a white-hair'd man
Hath laid him down beside its foamy bank,
Nor ever risen again from where he sank.
Child Rhone, thy course is marked by death and woe:
Wilt thou thus swift and laughing always go?
The growing river still flows broadening down,
Not otherwise than when it first began;
Still young, still wild, though many a white-hair'd man
Hath laid him down beside its foamy bank,
Nor ever risen again from where he sank.
Child Rhone, thy course is marked by death and woe:
Wilt thou thus swift and laughing always go?
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