5 8 THE OLIVE LEAF. 



CHAP. 



THE AVALANCHE. 



THE Alpine peasant in his lonely glen, 



Who sees the sudden lake formed at its head 



Burst all at once its icy barrier. 



And sweep his village from its perilous ledge ; 



Or hears the avalanche roar down the heights, 



A cataract of snow, whose very breath 



The stoutest pine-tree snaps like brittle reed, 



Scattering destruction in its awful path, 



And burying home and field in one white grave ; 



His vision bounded by his narrow hills 



His sense impressed by his own loss alone 



Imagines that these evils are the work 



Of some dread Power, that loves but to destroy. 



But we who live beneath more spacious skies, 



And take a wider survey of the world, 



See in these evils but the needful links 



In a vast scheme, by which the parched earth 



Is watered, and the treasures of the snow, 



For ever melted and renewed, are borne, 



With most beneficent economy, 



Down from their storehouse on the lofty peaks, 



To give prosperity and wealth to realms 



That otherwise would have been barren wastes. 



And so the sorrows that o'erwhelm our life, 



The pains and losses that make bare our lot 



And chill our hearts, which, in the narrow space 



Of their own dark horizon, we are apt 



To view with terror, as the wanton sport 



