38 THE HOSPICE OF ST. BERNARD. 



But his was not that pure and fervent zeal, 

 That holier love the Christian's breast may feel : 

 That love, which bade the patriot pilgrim roam 

 Dauntless of danger from his native home ; 

 Subdue to kindness each unlettered clan ; 

 In bonds of peace link savage man to man. 

 Then 'mid uncultured wilds and frozen snows. 

 Saint of the Alps, thy modest fabric rose ; 

 And songs of praise, o'er hill and valley poured, 

 The guardian Shepherd of mankind adored. 



And such is love's best attribute — to rise 

 Like some pure star in dark and moonless skies. 

 Think not she triumphs in the pomp of eartli. 

 Or lists the unhallowed voice of heartless mirth ; 

 Sits at the high right hand of sceplered pride. 

 Steers her gay bark on fortune's waveless tide. 

 Sleeps on the couch of apathy, or roves 

 With haggard pleasure in her torch-lit groves : 

 No — hers to check the mourner's bitter sigh, 

 And soothe the restless bed of agony : 

 Relieve the tortures of departing breath. 

 And whisper comfort to the gasp of death. 



Ages have past since first the Hospice stood 

 Amid that dark and fearful solitude; 

 Yet rising o'er the mountain's rugged form, 

 Spnred by the lightning, reverenced by the storm. 

 Yes, storms may reverence still, and lightnings spare. 

 But man must mar what nature deems most fair. 

 With hand of sacrilege, and sword of flame. 

 The Arab horde* — tlie turbaned spoiler came ; 

 And weeping Pity saw her rites expire 

 Wrapt in the ruthless flood of hostile fire : 

 Not thus to perish — for some holy power 

 Watched o'er the silence of that lonely tower. 



Ages past on — again the voice of war 

 Is heard resounding o'er those heights afar; 

 Another Hannibal has dared to climb 

 Those mighty bulwarks of primaeval time. 

 Behold by Aar's winding course advance 

 Thirsting for blood the warrior hosts of France. 

 Onward they wend — around the pathless steep 

 Their crested helms and shining falchions sweep; 

 Wild wave their eagle banners thro' the glade, 

 Their proud plumes glitter in the mystic shade. 



* In the eleventh century the Saracens overran the country, and burnt the 

 Hospice. 



