 | Songs of the Seasons |  |
123
CLIMBING SONNETS.
I
This demon of the Alps—this climbing rage,That yearly on our vent'rous islemen throws
Its cruel spells, and blanches many a rose,
And blights the hope of many a heritage,
Who can appease it? Who the purpose move
Of those that to its fatal beck respond,
And leave adoring hearths and circles fond,
In the strange faith that weakness flows of love?
Foolish ambition! all to be a span
Nigher the interminable heavens than are
Their fellows. Take example from that star,
Which, measuring not its strength by thine, O man!
Shews purest in celestial life and beauty
Upon the low horizon of its duty.
II
If thou wilt climb and hold as enterpriseThis tampering with inglorious danger—go!
There are some men to whom God's Paradise
Were Hell, if reached without excess of woe;
But such have the Eternal Heav'ns in view,
And crowns of Amaranth, and the rest to be
That holds with Christ and all eternity;—
Thou but the greeting lost in the adieu—
124
Is like the climax of the rocket's flight—
A turning point in exultation gained,
Whereat dissolve the extasies of light.
Such, too, the fortune of thy daring feat!
To reach is but to hoist the signal of retreat.
III
If thou wilt climb, are there not still undared,Within the compass of thy native land,
Thrones of strong venture—muniments which scared
The Roman eye, so terrible and grand—
Ramparts of rock, by bard and echo manned,
Enough to sate thee? Not, in all this wealth
Of mountain range made richer by home ties,
By pride of nation and on score of health,
Enough to satisfy thine enterprise?
Thou emmet, without soul! A chimney sweep
Will stand in rough comparison with thee,
Should climbing be thy sole felicity.
Emmet! yea, emmet! Climbing is to creep,
When all its purpose is below the skies;
Thine own green hills, with their familiar scalps,
As soul-exalters, soar beyond the Alps.
| Songs of the Seasons | |