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| ’T IS sunrise on Saint Bernard’s snow, | |
| ’T is dawn within the vale below; | |
| And in Martigny’s streets appear | |
| The mule and noisy muleteer; | |
| And tinklings fill the rosy air, | 5 |
| Until the mountain pass seems there, | |
| Up whose steep pathway scarcely stirs | |
| The long, slow line of travellers; | |
| And in the shadowy town is heard | |
| The sound of many a foreign word. | 10 |
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| Old men are there, whose locks are white | |
| As yonder cloud which veils the height; | |
| And maidens, whose young cheeks are kissed | |
| By ringlets flashing bright or dark, | |
| Whose hearts are light as yonder mist | 15 |
| That holds the music of the lark,— | |
| And youths are there with jest and laugh, | |
| Each bearing his oft-branded staff | |
| To chronicle, when all is done, | |
| The dangerous heights his feet have won. | 20 |
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| So toils through life the pilgrim soul | |
| Mid rocky ways and valleys fair; | |
| At every base or glorious goal | |
| His staff receives the record there,— | |
| The names that shall forever twine, | 25 |
| And blossom like a fragrant vine, | |
| Or, like a serpent, round it cling | |
| Eternally to coil and sting. | |
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