MONT BLANC.
[See cut, page 38.]
“When mid the lifeless summits proud
Of Alpine cliffs, where to the gelid sky
Snows piled on snows in wint’ry torpor lie,
The rays divine of vernal Phœbus play;
Th’ awakened heaps, in streamlets from on high,
Roused into action, lively leap away,
Glad warbling through the vales, in their new being gay.”—Thomson.
MONT BLANC AND THE GLACIERS.
This mountain, in Switzerland, so named on account of its white aspect, belongs to the great central chain of the Alps. It is truly gigantic, and is the most elevated mountain in Europe, rising no less than fifteen thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two feet, somewhat more than three miles, above the level of the sea, and fourteen thousand, six hundred and twenty-four feet above the lake of Geneva, in its vicinity. It is encompassed by those wonderful collections of snow and ice, called glaciers, two of the principal of which, are called Mont Dolent and Triolet. The highest part of Mont Blanc, named the Dromedary, is in the shape of a compressed hemisphere. From that point it sinks gradually, and presents a kind of concave surface of snow, in the midst of which is a small pyramid of ice. It then rises into a second hemisphere, which is named the Middle Dome; and thence descends into another concave surface, terminating in a point, which among other names bestowed on it by the Savoyards, is styled “Dome de Goute,” and may be regarded as the inferior dome.
The first successful attempt to reach the summit of Mont Blanc was made in August, 1786, by Doctor Paccard, a physician of Chamouny. He was led to make the attempt by a guide, named Balma, who, in searching for crystals, had discovered the only practicable route by which so arduous an undertaking could be accomplished. The ascent occupied fifteen hours, and the descent five, under circumstances of the greatest difficulty; the sight of the doctor, and that of his guide, Balma, being so affected by the snow and wind, as to render them almost blind, at the same time that the face of each was excoriated, and the lips exceedingly swelled.
On the first of August of the following year, 1787, the celebrated and indefatigable naturalist, M. de Saussure, set out on his successful expedition, accompanied by a servant and eighteen guides, who carried a tent and mattresses, together with the necessary accommodations and various instruments of experimental philosophy. The first night they passed under the tent, on the summit of the mountain of La Cote, four thousand, nine hundred and eight-six feet above the Priory, a large village in the vale of Chamouny, the journey thither being exempt from trouble or danger, as the ascent is always over turf, or on the solid rock; though above this place it is wholly over ice or snows.
Early next morning they traversed the glacier of La Cote, to gain the foot of a small chain of rocks, inclosed in the snows of Mont Blanc. The glacier is both difficult and dangerous, being intersected by wide, deep, irregular chasms, which frequently can be passed only by three bridges of snow, which are suspended over the abyss. After reaching the ridge of rocks, the track winds along a hollow, or valley, filled with snow, which extends north and south to the foot of the highest summit, and is divided at intervals by enormous crevices. These show the snow to be disposed in horizontal beds, each of which answers to a year, and notwithstanding the width of the fissures, the depth can in no part be measured. At four in the afternoon, the party reached the second of the three great platforms of snow they had to traverse, and here they encamped, at the hight of nine thousand, three hundred and twelve feet above the Priory, or twelve thousand, seven hundred and sixty-eight feet (nearly two miles and a half) above the level of the sea.
From the center of this platform, inclosed between the farthest summit of Mont Blanc on the south, its high steps, or terraces, on the east, and the Dome de Goute on the west, nothing but snow appears. It is quite pure, of a dazzling whiteness, and on the high summits presents a singular contrast with the sky, which in these elevated regions is almost black. Here no living being is to be seen; no appearance of vegetation: it is the abode of cold and silence. “When,” observes M. de Saussure, “I represent to myself Dr. Paccard and James Balma first arriving, on the decline of day, in these deserts, without shelter, without assistance, and even without the certainty that men could live in the places which they proposed to reach, and still pursuing their career with unshaken intrepidity, it seems impossible to admire too much their strength of mind and their courage.”
The company departed, at seven the next morning, to traverse the third and last platform, the slope of which is extremely steep, being in some places thirty-nine degrees. It terminates in precipices on all sides; and the surface of the snow was so hard, that those who went foremost were obliged to cut places for the feet with hatchets. The last slope of all presents no danger; but the air possesses so high a degree of rarity, that the strength is speedily exhausted, and on approaching the summit it was found necessary to stop at every fifteen or sixteen paces to take breath. At eleven they reached the top of the mountain, where they continued four hours and a half, during which time M. de Saussure enjoyed, with rapture and astonishment, a view the most extensive as well as the most rugged and sublime in nature, and made those observations which have rendered this expedition important to philosophy.
A light vapor, suspended in the lower regions of the air, concealed from the sight the lowest and most remote objects, such as the plains of France and Lombardy; but the whole surrounding assemblage of high summits appeared with the greatest distinctness.
M. de Saussure descended with his party, and the next morning reached Chamouny, without the smallest accident. As they had taken the precaution to wear vails of crape, their faces were not excoriated, nor their sight debilitated. The cold was not found to be so extremely piercing as it was described by Dr. Paccard. By experiments made with the hygrometer, on the summit of the mountain, the air was found to contain a sixth portion only of the humidity of that of Geneva; and to this dryness of the air, M. de Saussure imputes the burning thirst which he and his companions experienced. The balls of the electrometer diverged three lines only, and the electricity was positive. At times the air seems filled with electricity. A recent traveler (1854) says, that, in the night, his guide having come out from the cabin of the Grand Mulets, saw the ridges of the mountain apparently all on fire. He immediately communicated what he had observed to his companions, who all rushed to assure themselves of the fact, and then they saw that through the electricity generated by the tempest, all the rocks of the Grand Mulets were illuminated. They found the same phenomenon on their own persons. When they raised their arms, their fingers became phosphorescent. M. de Saussure found it required half an hour to make water boil, while at Geneva fifteen or sixteen minutes sufficed, and twelve or thirteen at the seaside. None of his party discovered the smallest difference in the taste or smell of bread, wine, meat, fruits or liquors, as some travelers have pretended is the case at great hights; but sounds were of course much weakened, from the want of objects of reflection. Of all the organs, that of respiration was most affected, the pulse of one of the guides beating ninety-eight times in a minute, that of the servant one hundred and twelve, and that of M. de Saussure one hundred and one; while at Chamouny, the pulsations respectively were forty-nine, sixty, and seventy-two. A few days afterward, Mr. Beaufoy, an English gentleman, succeeded in a similar attempt, although it was attended with greater difficulty, arising from enlargements in the chasms in the ice.
A late traveler, wandering amid the same sublime scenery that has been described, says:
“Mont Blanc is clearly visible from Geneva, perhaps once in the week, or about sixty times in the year. When he is visible, a walk to the junction of the Arve and the Rhone, either by the way of the plains on the Genevan side, or by the hights on the side toward the south of France, affords a wonderful combination of sublimity and beauty on the earth and in the heavens. Those snowy mountain ranges, so white, so pure, so dazzling in the clear azure depths, do really look as if they belonged to another world; as if, like the faces of supernatural intelligences, they were looking sadly and steadfastly on our world, to speak to us of theirs. Some of these mountain peaks of snow you can see only through the perspective of other mountains, nearer to you, and covered with verdure, which makes the snowy pyramids appear so distant, so sharply defined, so high up, so glorious; it is indeed like the voice of great truths stirring the soul. As your eye follows the range, they lie in such glittering masses against the horizon, in such grand repose; they shoot into the sky in bright weather in such infinite clearness, so pure, so flashing; that they seem never to lose the charm of a sudden and startling revelation to the mind. Are they not sublime images of the great truths of God’s own word, that sometimes indeed are vailed with clouds, but in fair weather do carry us, as in a chariot of fire and with horses of fire, into eternity, into the presence of God? The atmosphere of our hearts is so misty and stormy, that we do not see them more than sixty times a year in their glory: if every Sabbath-day we get a view of them without clouds, we do well; but when we see them as they are, then we feel their power, then we are rapt by them from earth, away, away, away, into the depths of heaven!
“In some circumstances, when we are climbing the mountains, even the mists that hang around them do add to the glory of the view; as in the rising sun, when they are so penetrated with brightness, that they softly rise over the crags as a robe of misty light, or seem like the motion of sweet Nature breathing into the atmosphere from her morning altars the incense of praise. And in the setting sun how often do they hang around the precipices, glowing with the golden and crimson hues of the west, and preventing us from clearly defining the forms of the mountains, only to make them more lovely to our view. So it is sometimes with the very clouds around God’s word, and the lights and shades upon it. There is an inscrutability of truth which sometimes increases its power, while we wait with solemn reverence for the hour when it shall be fully revealed to us; and our faith, like the setting sun, may clothe celestial mysteries with a soft and rosy-colored light, which makes them more suitable to our present existence, than if we saw them in the clear and cloudless atmosphere of a spiritual noon.
“You have a fine point for viewing Mont Blanc, without going out of the city, from the ramparts on the west side of Rousseau’s island. Here a brazen indicator is erected, with the names of the different mountain summits and ridges, so that by taking sight across the index, you can distinguish them at once. You will not mistake Mont Blanc, if you see him; but until you get accustomed to the panorama, you may easily mistake one of his court for the king, when the monarch himself is not visible.
“A still better point of view you will have at Coppet, ascending toward the Jura. In proportion as you rise from the borders of the lake, every part of the landscape becomes more beautiful, though what you wish to gain is the most commanding view of the mountains, every other object being secondary. In a bright day, nothing can be more clearly and distinctly defined than Mont Blanc, with his attendant mighty ranges, cut in dazzling snowy brightness against the clear blue sky. The sight of those glorious glittering fields and mountains of ice and snow, produces immediately a longing to be there among them. They make an impression upon the soul, of something supernatural, almost divine. Although the whole scene lying before you is so beautiful, (the lake, the verdant banks, the trees, and the lower ranges of verdure-covered mountains, constituting in themselves alone one of the loveliest pictures in the world,) yet the snowy ranges of Mont Blanc are the grand feature. Those glittering distant peaks are the only thing in the scene that takes a powerful hold upon the soul; but they do quite possess it, and tyrannize over it, with an ecstatic thralldom. One is never wearied with gazing and wondering at the glory. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help!
“Another admirable point, much farther from the lake and the city than the preceding, and at a greater elevation, is what is called the promenade of the point Sacconex. A fine engraving of this view is printed on letter-paper for correspondence; but there is not sufficient distinctness given to the outlines of Mont Blanc and the other summits of the glittering snowy range, that seems to float in the heavens like the far-off alabaster walls of Paradise. No language, nor any engraving, can convey the ravishing magnificence and splendor, the exciting sublimity and beauty of the scene. But there are days in which the air around the mountains seems itself of such a hazy whiteness, that the snow melts into the atmosphere as it were, and dies away in the heavens like the indistinct outline of a bright but partially remembered dream. There are other days in which the fleecy clouds, like vails of light over the faces of angels, do so rest upon and mingle with the snowy summits, that you can hardly tell where one begins and the other ends. Sometimes you look upon the clouds thinking they are mountains, and then again Mont Blanc himself will be revealed in such far-off, unmoving, glittering grandeur, in such wonderful distinctness, that there is no mistaking the changeful imitations of his glory for the reality. Sometimes the clouds and the mountains together are mingled in such a multitudinous and interminable array of radiances, that it seems like the white-robed armies of heaven with their floating banners, marching and countermarching in front of the domes and jeweled battlements of the celestial city. When the fog scenery (of which I shall give you a description) takes place upon the earth, and at the same time there are such revelations of the snowy summits in the heavens, and such goings on of glory among them, and you get upon the mountain to see them, it is impossible to describe the effect, as of a vast enchantment, upon the mind.
“The view of Geneva, the lake, and the Jura mountains from Coligny is much admired; and at sunset, perhaps the world can not offer a more lovely scene. It was here that Byron took up his abode; a choice which I have wondered at, for you can not see Mont Blanc from this point, and therefore the situation is inferior to many others. Ascending the hill farther to the east, when you come to Col. Tronchin’s beautiful residence, you have perhaps the finest of all the views of Mont Blanc, in or around Geneva. Go upon the top of Col. Tronchin’s tower about half an hour before sunset, and the scene is not unworthy of comparison even with the glory of the sunrise as witnessed from the summit of the Righi. It is surprising to see how long Mont Blanc retains the light of day, and how long the snow burns in the setting sun, after his orb has sunk from your own view entirely behind the green range of the Jura. Then after a succession of tints from the crimson to the cold gray, it being manifest that the sun has left the mountain to a companionship with the stars alone, you also are ready to depart, the glory of the scene being over, when suddenly and unaccountably the snowy summits redden again, as if the sun were returning upon them, the countenance of Mont Blanc is filled with rosy light, and the cold gray gives place for a few moments to a deep warm radiant pink, (as if you saw a sudden smile playing over the features of a sleeping angel,) which at length again dies in the twilight. This phenomenon is extremely beautiful, but I know not how to account for it; nor was any one of our party wiser than I; nevertheless, our ignorance of causes need never diminish, but often increases the pleasure of beautiful sights.”
“I have said I would give you a description of the ‘fog-scenery.’ In the autumn, when the fogs prevail, it is often a thick drizzling mist in Geneva, and nothing visible, while on the mountain tops the air is pure, and the sun shining. On such a day as this, when the children of the mist tell you that on the mountains it is fair weather, you must start early for the range nearest Geneva, on the way to Chamouny, the range of the Grand Saléve, the base of which is about four miles distant, prepared to spend the day upon the mountains, and you will witness one of the most singular and beautiful scenes to be enjoyed in Switzerland.
“The day I set out was so misty, that I took an umbrella, for the fog gathered and fell like rain, and I more than doubted whether I should see the sun at all. In the midst of this mist I climbed the rocky zigzag half hewn out of the face of the mountain, and half natural, and passing the village that is perched among the high rocks, which might be a refuge for the conies, began toiling up the last ascent of the mountain, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, but the thick mist, the vail of which had closed below and behind me over village, path and precipice, and still continued heavy and dark above me, so that I thought I never should get out of it. Suddenly my head rose above the level of the fog into the clear air, and the heavens were shining, and Mont Blanc, with the whole illimitable range of snowy mountain tops around him, was throwing back the sun! An ocean of mist, as smooth as a chalcedony, as soft and white as the down of the eider-duck’s breast, lay over the whole lower world; and as I rose above it, and ascended the mountain to its overhanging verge, it seemed an infinite abyss of vapor, where only the mountain tops were visible, on the Jura range like verdant wooded islands, on the Mont Blanc range as glittering surges and pyramids of ice and snow. No language can describe the extraordinary sublimity and beauty of the view. A level sea of white mist in every direction, as far as the eye could extend, with a continent of mighty icebergs on the one side floating in it, and on the other a forest promontory, with a slight undulating swell in the bosom of the sea, like the long, smooth undulations of the ocean in a calm.
“Standing on the overhanging crags, I could hear the chime of bells, the hum of busy labor, and the lowing of cattle, buried in the mist, and faintly coming up to you from the fields and villages. Now and then a bird darted up out of the mist into the clear sun and air, and sailed in playful circles, and then dived and disappeared again below the surface. By and by the wind began to agitate the cloudy sea, and more and more of the mountains became visible. Sometimes you have a bright sunset athwart this sea of cloud, which then rolls in waves burnished and tipped with fire. When you go down into the mist again, and leave behind you the beautiful sky, a clear, bracing atmosphere, the bright sun and the snow-shining mountains, it is like passing from heaven to earth, from the brightness and serenity of the one, to the darkness and cares of the other. The whole scene is a leaf in nature’s book, which but few turn over; but how rich it is in beauty and glory, and in food for meditation, none can tell but those who have witnessed it. This is a scene in Cloud-land, which hath its mysteries of beauty, that defy the skill of the painter and engraver.
“The poet Wordsworth has given two very vivid descriptions of these mist phenomena, under different aspects from that in which I witnessed them. The first is contained in his descriptive sketches of a pedestrian tour among the Alps.
“‘’Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows,
More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose.
Far stretched beneath the many-tinted hills
A mighty waste of mist the valley fills,
A solemn sea! whose vales and mountains round
Stand motionless, to awful silence bound.
A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide
And bottomless, divides the midway tide.
Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear
The pines, that near the coast their summits rear.
Of cabins, woods and lawns a pleasant shore
Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar.
Loud through that midway gulf ascending, sound,
Unnumbered streams with hollow roar profound.
Mount through the nearer mist the chant of birds,
And talking voices, and the low of herds,
The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell,
And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell.’
“But this extract is not to be compared for power to the following from the same poem, describing an Alpine sunset after a day of mist and storm upon the mountains.
“‘’Tis storm, and hid in mist from hour to hour,
All day the floods a deepening murmur pour.
The sky is vailed, and every cheerful sight,
Dark is the region as with coming night,
But what a sudden burst of overpowering light
Triumphant on the bosom of the storm
Glances the fire-clad eagle’s wheeling form.
Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine
The wood-crowned cliffs, that o’er the lake recline.
Wide o’er the Alps a hundred streams unfold,
At once to pillars turned, that flame with gold.
Behind his sail the peasant tries to shun
The west, that burns like one dilated sun,
Where in a mighty crucible expire
The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire!’
“There was a time during the middle ages, when Chamouny was inhabited by monks. The reigning lord of the country made a present of the whole valley to a convent of Benedictine friars, in the eleventh century. Two English travelers, Messrs. Pococke and Windham, drew attention to its wonderful scenery in 1741, and now it is a grand highway of summer travel, visited annually by three or four thousand people. A visit to Mont Blanc has become a pilgrimage of fashion. Fashion does some good things in her day; and it is a great thing to have the steps of men directed into this grand temple of nature, who would otherwise be dawdling the summer perhaps at immoral watering-places. A man can hardly pass through the vale of Chamouny, before the awful face of Mont Blanc, and not feel that he is an immortal being. The great mountain looks with an eye, and speaks with a voice, that does something to wake the soul out of its slumbers.
“The sublime hymn by Coleridge, in the vale before sunrise, is the concentrated expression of all the inspiring and heaven-directing influences of the scenery. The poem is as remarkably distinguished above the whole range of poetry in our language, for its sublimity, as the mountain itself among all the great ranges of the Alps. I am determined to quote it in full, for that and the tour of Mont Blanc ought to go together; and I will present along with it the German original of the poem in twenty lines, nearly as translated by Coleridge’s admiring and affectionate relative. I am not aware that Coleridge himself ever visited the vale of Chamouny; and if not, then that wonderful hymn to Mont Blanc was the work of imagination solely, building on the basis of the original lines in German. This was a grand and noble foundation, it is true; but the hymn by Coleridge was a perfect transfiguration of the piece, an inspiration of it with a higher soul, and an investiture of it with garments that shine like the sun. It was the greatest work of the poet’s great and powerful imagination, combined with the deep worshiping sense of spiritual things in his soul.
“On visiting the scene, one is apt to feel as if he could not have written it in the vale itself: the details of the picture would have been somewhat different; and, confined by the reality, one may doubt if even Coleridge’s genius could have gained that lofty ideal point of observation and conception, from which he drew the vast and glorious imagery that rose before him. Not because the poem is more glorious than the reality, for that is impossible; but because, in painting from the reality, the force and sublimity of his general conceptions would have been weakened by the attempt at faithfulness in the detail, and nothing like the impression of the aerial grandeur of the scene, its despotic unity in the imagination, notwithstanding its variety, would have been conveyed to the mind.
“Yet there are parts of it which at sunrise or sunset either, the poet might have written from the very windows of his bedroom, if he had been there in the dawn and evenings of days of such extraordinary brilliancy and glory, as marked and filled the atmosphere, during our sojourn in that blessed region. A glorious region it is, much nearer heaven than our common world, and carrying a sensitive, rightly constituted mind far up in spirit toward the gates of heaven, toward God, whose glory is the light of heaven, and of whose power and majesty the mountains, ice-fields and glaciers, whether beneath the sun, moon, or stars, are a dim, though grand and glittering, symbol. ‘Fire and hail, snow and vapor, stormy wind, fulfilling His word, mountains and all hills, fruitful trees and all cedars, praise the Lord. He looketh on the earth and it trembleth; He toucheth the hills, and they smoke.’
“The following is the original German hymn, in what the translator denominates a very bald English translation, to be compared as a curiosity with its glorification in Coleridge. It occupies but five stanzas of four lines, and is entitled, ‘Chamouny at Sunrise. To Klopstock.’ I have here put it into the metrical form of the original.
“Out of the deep shade of the silent fir-grove,
Trembling I survey thee, mountain-head of eternity,
Dazzling (blinding) summit, from whose vast hight
My dimly perceiving spirit floats into the Everlasting.
“Who sank the pillar deep in the lap of earth
Which, for past centuries, fast props thy mass up?
Who uptowered, high in the vault of ether,
Mighty and bold, thy beaming countenance?
“Who poured you from on high, out of eternal Winter’s realm,
O jagged streams, downward with thunder-noise?
And who bade aloud, with the Almighty Voice,
‘Here shall rest the stiffening billows?’
“Who marks out there the path for the Morning Star?
Who wreathes with blossoms the skirt of eternal Frost?
To whom, wild Arveiron, in terrible harmonies,
Rolls up the sound of thy tumult of billows?
“Jehovah! Jehovah! crashes in the bursting ice!
Avalanche-thunders roll it in the cleft downward:
Jehovah! it rustles in the bright tree-tops;
It whispers murmuring in the purling silver-brooks.
“This is very grand. Who but a mighty poet, one seeing with ‘the vision and the faculty divine’—what, but a transfusing, all-conquering imagination—would have dared the attempt to compose another poem on the same subject, or to carry this to a greater hight of sublimity, by melting it down anew, so to speak, and pouring it out into a vaster, more glorious mold? The more one thinks of it, the more he will see, in the poem so produced, a proof most remarkable, of the spontaneous, deep-seated, easily exerted, and almost exhaustless power and originality of Coleridge’s genius. Now let us peruse, ‘with mute thanks and secret ecstacy,’ his own solemn and stupendous lines.
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY.
[Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and, within a few paces of the glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its ‘flowers of loveliest blue.’]
“Hast thou a charm to stay the Morning Star
In his steep course? so long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, O Sovran Blanc?
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above,
Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black;
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from Eternity!
“O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
I worshiped the Invisible alone.
“Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life, and life’s own secret joy,
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing,—there,
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!
“Awake my Soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstacy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.
“Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale
Oh, struggling with the darkness all night long,
And all night visited by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink!
Companion of the morning star at dawn,
Thyself earth’s rosy star, and of the dawn
Coherald: wake, oh wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
“And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
Forever shattered, and the same forever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came,)
Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?
“Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s brow,
Adown enormous ravines slope amain—
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once, amidst their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
“Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest!
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements!
Utter forth God! and fill the hills with praise!
“Thou, too, hoar Mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet, the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depths of clouds, that vail thy breast;
Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou,
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me,—Rise, oh ever rise!
Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread embassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!
“Thanks to thee, thou noble poet, for giving this glorious voice to Alpine nature, for so befitting and not unworthy an interpretation of Nature’s own voice, in words of our own mother-tongue. Thanks to God for his grace vouchsafed to thee, so that now thou praisest Him amidst the infinite host of flaming seraphs, before the mount supreme of glory, where all the empyrean rings with angelic hallelujahs! The creation of such a mind as Coleridge’s, is only outdone by its redemption through the blood of the Lamb. Oh, who can tell the rapture of a soul, that could give a voice for nations to such a mighty burst of praise to God in this world, when its powers, uplifted in eternity, and dilated with absorbing, unmingled, unutterable love, shall pour themselves forth in the anthem of redemption, Worthy is the Lamb that was slain!”