Mont Blanc appears-still, snowy, and serene. Its subject mountains their unearthly forms Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, Blue as the overhanging heaven, that And wind among the accumulated steeps ; Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, And the wolf tracks her there. How hideously Its shapes are heaped around—rude, bare, and high, Ghastly and scarred and riven !-Is this the scene Where the old Earthquake-dæmon taught her young Ruin? were these their toys? or did a sea Of fire envelop once this silent snow? None can reply—all seems eternal now. The wilderness has a mysterious tongue Which teaches awful doubt,—or faith so mild, So solemn, so serene, that Man may be, But for such faith, with Nature reconciled. Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood. By all, but which the wise and great and good Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. 4. The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, Ocean, and all the living things that dwell Within the dædal earth, lightning and rain, Earthquake and fiery flood and hurricane, The torpor of the year when feeble dreams Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep Holds every future leaf and flower, the bound With which from that detested trance they leap, The works and ways of man, their death and birth. And that of him, and all that his may be, All things that move and breathe, with toil and sound Are born and die, revolve, subside, and swell. Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, Remote, serene, and inaccessible : And this the naked countenance of earth On which I gaze, even these primæval mountains, Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep, Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains, Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice Frost and the sun in scorn of mortal power Have piled-dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, A city of death, distinct with many a tower And wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin, Is there, that from the boundary of the skies Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing Its destined path, or in the mangled soil Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, drawn down From yon remotest waste, have overthrown place Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil; Their food and their retreat for ever gone, So much of life and joy is lost. The race Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling Vanish like smoke before the tempest's stream, And their place is not known. Below, vast caves Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, Which, from those secret chasms in tumult welling, Meet in the Vale; and one majestic River, The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air. 5. Mont Blanc yet gleams on high: the power is there, The still and solemn power, of many sights And many sounds, and much of life and death. In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, In the lone glare of day, the snows descend Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there, Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, Or the star-beams dart through them. Winds contend Silently there, and heap the snow, with breath Rapid and strong, but silently. Its home Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee. And what were thou and earth and stars and sea, If to the human mind's imaginings Silence and solitude were vacancy? 23rd June 1816. |