There the too great elevation turned Napoleon's seething brain;
Here a whirlwind caught Descartes and swept him downward to the plain.
And the day is well nigh ended, as against the steep extended,
Each by each in turn befriended, each to each for succour clings;
While the tempest, well nigh brushing us away sweeps down, and gushing
From our very path come rushing mighty rivers' snow-fed springs,
And the avalanche's roar through far off glens and valleys rings;
But, a glimpse sometimes espying, through the clouds beneath us flying,
Of the plain all peaceful lying, of the paths by which we came,
Or, along the road before us, of the fame close hanging o'er us—