’Twas distant yet, and as I ran,
Full often was my wistful gaze
Turned to the sun, who now began
To call in all his outpost rays,
And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero’s flight.
Oh! how I wished for Joshua’s power
To slay the brightness of that hour!
But no, the sun still less became,
Diminished to a speck, as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame
That on the apostles’ heads descended.
’Twas at this instant, while there glowed
This last intensest gleam of light,
Suddenly through the opening road
The valley burst upon my sight;
That glorious valley with its lake,
And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
Mighty and pure, and fit to make
The ramparts of a godhead’s dwelling.
I stood entranced and mute as they
Of Israel think the assembled world
Will stand upon the awful day,
When the ark’s light, aloft unfurled
Among the opening clouds shall shine,
Divinity’s own radiant sign!
Mighty Mont Blanc, thou wert to me
That minute, with thy brow in heaven,
As sure a sign of Deity
As e’er to mortal gaze was given
Nor ever, were I destined yet
To live my life twice o’er again,
Can I the deepfelt awe forget,
The ecstacy that thrilled me then.
’Twas all the unconsciousness of power
And life, beyond this mortal hour;
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of heaven, as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,
When near their time for change of skies;
That proud assurance of our claim
To rank among the sons of light,
Mingled with shame! oh, bitter shame!
At having risked that splendid right,
For aught that earth, through all its range
Of glories, offers in exchange!
’Twas all this, at the instant brought,
Like breaking sunshine o’er my thought;
’Twas all this, kindled to a glow
Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine
Thus purely ever, man might grow,
Even upon earth, a thing divine,
And be once more the creature made
To walk unstained the Elysian shade.
No, never shall I lose the trace
Of what I’ve felt in this bright place:
And should my spirit’s hope grow weak,
Should I, oh God! e’er doubt thy power,
This mighty scene again I’ll seek,
At the same calm and glowing hour;
And here, at the sublimest shrine
That nature ever reared to thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality.
NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 63·80.