| |
In the Convent of Saint Bernard
O, IT is a joy to gaze | |
| Where the great logs lie ablaze; | |
| Thus to list the garrulous flame | |
| Muttering like some ancient dame; | |
| And to hear the sap recount | 5 |
| Stories of its native mount, | |
| Telling of the summer weather, | |
| When the trees swayed all together,— | |
| How the little birds would launch | |
| Arrowy songs from branch to branch, | 10 |
| Till the leaves with pleasure glistened, | |
| And each great bough hung and listened | |
| To the song of thrush and linnet, | |
| When securely lodged within it, | |
| With all pleasant sounds that dally | 15 |
| Round the hill and in the valley; | |
| Till each log and branch and splinter | |
| On the ancient hearth of Winter | |
| Can do naught but tell the story | |
| Of its transient summer glory. | 20 |
| |
| O, there ’s tranquil joy in gazing, | |
| Where these great logs lie ablazing, | |
| While the wizard flame is sparkling, | |
| The memorial shadows darkling | |
| Swim the wall in strange mutation, | 25 |
| Till the marvelling contemplation | |
| Feeds its wonder to repletion | |
| With each firelight apparition. | |
| |
| There the ashen Alp appears, | |
| And its glowing head uprears, | 30 |
| Like a warrior grim and bold, | |
| With a helmet on of gold; | |
| And a music goes and comes | |
| Like the sound of distant drums. | |
| |
| O’er a line of serried lances | 35 |
| How the blazing banner dances, | |
| While red pennons rise and fall | |
| Over ancient Hannibal. | |
| |
| Lo, beneath a moon of fire, | |
| Where the meteor sparks stream by her, | 40 |
| There I see the brotherhood | |
| Which on sacred Grütli stood, | |
| Pledging with crossed hands to stand | |
| The defenders of the land. | |
| |
| And in that red ember fell | 45 |
| Gessler, with the dart of Tell! | |
| |
| Still they fall away, and, lo! | |
| Other phantoms come and go, | |
| Other banners wing the air, | |
| And the countless bayonets glare, | 50 |
| While around the steep way stir | |
| Armies of the conqueror; | |
| And the slow mule toiling on | |
| Bears the world’s Napoleon. | |
| |
| Now the transient flame that flashes | 55 |
| ’Twixt the great logs and the ashes | |
| Sends a voice out from the middle | |
| That my soul cannot unriddle,— | |
| Till the fire above and under | |
| Gnaws the stoutest wood asunder, | 60 |
| And the brands, in ruin blended, | |
| Smoking, lie uncomprehended,— | |
| While the dying embers blanch, | |
| And the muffled avalanche, | |
| Noiseless as the years descend, | 65 |
| Sweeps them to an ashen end. | |
| Thus at last the great shall be, | |
| And the slave shall lie with them,— | |
| Pié Jesu Domine | |
| Dona eis requiem! | 70 |
| |
