THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS.
‘Twas night upon the Alps. The (1)[1] Senn's wild horn,
Like a wind's voice, had pour'd its last long tone,
Whose thrilling echoes, through the larch-woods borne,
To the low cabins of the glens, made known
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone
By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest;
The chamois slumber'd, for the chase was done;
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press'd;
Oh! who may tell the Majesty of Night,
Thron’d on those summits?—They, for whom her hours
Bring, with their stars, but softer sounds and light,
And richer scents, to float through citron bowers,
Know little of the marvels and the powers,
Whereby she rules the spirit!—Let them stand
By the blue Glaciers, midst the mountain towers,
When Heaven's deep silence wraps a voiceless land—
For awful, e'en as death, the calm around,
Awful and strange!—nor seem those regions made
Unto man's use, but in that rest profound,
For some dread being's wakeful eye array'd
With sad, yet glorious beauty!—To a shade
Dark as a Pall's, th' intensely azure sky (2)[2]
Deepens its mantle, on the Alp-Domes laid; (3)[3]
And stars, like altar-fires, burn forth on high,
The leaves were falling, but without a sound,
In Uri's ancient forests, ev'n like snows
When winds are laid (4)[4]. With solemn radiance crown'd,
Clear through Heaven's purple gloom the mountains rose,
As the broad moon of Autumn's golden close
Look’d o'er their heights in stillness. But the roar
Of distant torrents, on the scene's repose,
Came rolling mightier to the lake's dark shore,
Did the land sleep?—The Woodman’s axe had ceas'd
Its ringing strokes upon the beech and plane;
The grapes were gather'd in; the vintage-feast
Was clos’d upon the hills, the reaper's strain
Hush'd by the streams; the year was in its wane,
