1832.] C 337 ] 



I} JWlt ' 



MOTCT BT ANC 

 .fl MONT-BLANC. 



The monarch of mountains." 





I'VE stood beneath thy pinnacles, I've gazed upon thy brow, 



But thou art far more glorious beholding thee as now ; 



As now, within this little vale, on which thou lov'st to brood. i affi 



Where I have stood for hours and gazed, as growing where I stood. 



What art thou now ? a mountain king, on mountains looking down ; 

 Enthroned amidst the solitude, an avalanche thy crown. 

 Here pedestal'd on earth, like one who spurned the ground he trod, 

 Lifting thy majesty of pride, high, heavenward, like a god ! 



In vain the dun-plumed tyrant, Time, hath touched thee with his wing ; 

 In vain the whirlwind and the flame around thee rave and spring. 

 Thou fling'st the foam of ages back as strong winds toss the cloud 

 To nought beneath the scorching skies has thy dark forehead bowed. 



I look on thee, and many thoughts come welling from my heart 

 Thoughts of the years that thou hast seen, and still wilt see depart. 

 Dark dial of the dead ! the sun looks fiercely on thee now ; 

 How many seasons has he flung his glories on thy brow? 



Where are the thousand lives, whose fame was poized upon a breath ! 

 These lords of triumph, sceptred ones slaves of a realm of death. 

 Where are the flashing eyes, that slept their life away, in dreams- 

 Claiming the homage of earth's hills, her forests, and her streams ? 



Where are they all, these rulers stern, lords o'er the rills and glades, 

 These unit monarchs of the world, these animated shades ? 

 They are the Past ; yet thou art still what thou hast ever been, 

 A temple, where old Memory broods in mockery of the scene ! 



O 'tis an humbling thing to turn on the red track of Time, 

 To trace his .way through folly, tears, pride, ignorance, and crime; 

 And then, like rivers driven back to springs that gave them birth, 

 To bend our inmost thoughts upon this bulwark of the earth. 



It stands unaltered ! man has passed the conqueror, despot, slave ! 

 With all his passions and his pride to gloom and to the grave ! 

 Yet this the temple of dead Time, a cemetry of hours 

 Still seems a throne, whence Death surveys the victims he devours. 



A record blotted by the tears of mourning ages fled ! 

 A tablet whereon Time may count the numbers of his dead ! 

 Whate'er it be, strong blast and storm, sharp ice, and flashing flame, 

 Have war'd with it by turns and, lo ! this rock is still the same ! 



The same ! ay, still the same it lifts its lonely, glorious brow, 

 In solemn, silent majesty, ever the same as now ! 

 The has-been, is, and is to be a mountain-cradle, whence 

 The infant morn has daily sprung in mute magnificence ! 



The index of the evening star ! pale citizen of night, 

 Looking upon all lovely things, unearthly, and most bright ; 

 Thou art a land of dreams, Mont-Blanc, a fountain of deep thought, 

 Of feelings wild as are the clouds whereof thy crown is wrought. 



Shrine of the Past ! Yes, thou dost seem a Titan, still unmarr'd, 

 Whose locks are white with antique snow, whose brow is thunder-charr'd : 

 Who, in his ancient solitude, and loneliness of mind, 

 Doth look as if he held in scorn the power of human-kind. 



H. C. D. 



