| |
| O HEAVEN, it is a fearful thing | |
| Beneath the tempest’s beating wing | |
| To struggle, like a stricken hare | |
| When swoops the monarch bird of air; | |
| To breast the loud winds’ fitful spasms, | 5 |
| To brave the cloud and shun the chasms, | |
| Tossed like a fretted shallop-sait | |
| Between the ocean and the gale. | |
| |
| Along the valley, loud and fleet, | |
| The rising tempest leapt and roared, | 10 |
| And scaled the Alp, till from his seat | |
| The throned Eternity of Snow | |
| His frequent avalanches poured | |
| In thunder to the storm below. | |
| |
| The laden tempest wildly broke | 15 |
| O’er roaring chasms and rattling cliffs, | |
| And on the pathway piled the drifts; | |
| And every gust was like a wolf,— | |
| And there was one at every cloak,— | |
| That, snarling, dragged toward the gulf. | 20 |
| The staggering mule scarce kept his pace, | |
| With ears thrown back and shoulders bowed; | |
| The surest guide could barely trace | |
| The difference ’twixt earth and cloud; | |
| And every form, from foot to face, | 25 |
| Was in a winding-sheet of snow: | |
| The wind, ’t was like the voice of woe | |
| That howled above their burial-place! | |
| |
| And now, to crown their fears, a roar | |
| Like ocean battling with the shore, | 30 |
| Or like that sound which night and day | |
| Breaks through Niagara’s veil of spray, | |
| From some great height within the cloud, | |
| To some unmeasured valley driven, | |
| Swept down, and with a voice so loud | 35 |
| It seemed as it would shatter heaven! | |
| The bravest quailed; it swept so near, | |
| It made the ruddiest cheek to blanch, | |
| While look replied to look in fear, | |
| “The avalanche! The avalanche!” | 40 |
| It forced the foremost to recoil, | |
| Before its sideward billows thrown,— | |
| Who cried, “O God! Here ends our toil! | |
| The path is overswept and gone!” | |
| |
| The night came down. The ghostly dark, | 45 |
| Made ghostlier by its sheet of snow, | |
| Wailed round them its tempestuous woe, | |
| Like Death’s announcing courier! “Hark! | |
| There, heard you not the Alp-hound’s bark? | |
| And there again! and there! Ah, no, | 50 |
| ’T is but the blast that mocks us so!” | |
| |
| Then through the thick and blackening mist | |
| Death glared on them, and breathed so near, | |
| Some felt his breath grow almost warm, | |
| The while he whispered in their ear | 55 |
| Of sleep that should outdream the storm. | |
| Then lower drooped their lids,—when, “List! | |
| Now, heard you not the storm-bell ring? | |
| And there again, and twice and thrice! | |
| Ah, no, ’t is but the thundering | 60 |
| Of tempests on a crag of ice!” | |
| |
| Death smiled on them, and it seemed good | |
| On such a mellow bed to lie: | |
| The storm was like a lullaby, | |
| And drowsy pleasure soothed their blood. | 65 |
| But still the sturdy, practised guide | |
| His unremitting labor plied; | |
| Now this one shook until he woke, | |
| And closer wrapt the other’s cloak,— | |
| Still shouting with his utmost breath, | 70 |
| To startle back the hand of Death, | |
| Brave words of cheer! “But, hark again,— | |
| Between the blasts the sound is plain; | |
| The storm, inhaling, lulls,—and hark! | |
| It is—it is! the alp-dog’s bark! | 75 |
| And on the tempest’s passing swell,— | |
| The voice of cheer so long debarred,— | |
| There swings the Convent’s guiding-bell, | |
| The sacred bell of Saint Bernard!” | |
| |
| Then how they gained, though chilled and faint, | 80 |
| The Convent’s hospitable door, | |
| And breathed their blessing on the saint | |
| Who guards the traveller as of yore, | |
| Were long to tell: and then the night | |
| And unhoused winter of the height | 85 |
| Were rude for audience such as mine; | |
| The harp, too, wakes to more delight, | |
| The fingers take a freer flight, | |
| When warmed between the fire and wine. | |
| The storm around the fount of song | 90 |
| Has blown its blast so chill and long, | |
| What marvel if it freeze or fail, | |
| Or that its spray returns in hail! | |
| Or, rather, round my Muse’s wings | |
| The encumbering snow, though melting, clings | 95 |
| So thickly she can scarce do more | |
| Than flounder where she most would soar. | |
| |
| The hand benumbed, reviving, stings, | |
| And with thick touches only brings | |
| The harp-tones out by fits and spells,— | 100 |
| You needs must note how all the strings | |
| Together jar like icicles! | |
| Then heap the hearth and spread the board, | |
| And let the glowing flasks be poured, | |
| While I beside the roaring fire | 105 |
| Melt out the music of my lyre. | |
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