Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839/Crossing the Choor Mountains
46
CROSSING THE CHOOR MOUNTAINS.
|
CROSSING THE CHOOR MOUNTAINS.
Lieutenant Moorcroft was the first European who ever crossed the Choor Mountains. After many hardships and difficulties, he died at Andhko. The elevation of this mountain-pass above the level of the sea, is twelve thousand one hundred and forty-nine feet. During a considerable part of the year, the Choor is hoary with snow; and when moonlight falls upon the scene, an effect is produced as if floods of molten silver were poured over the surface. Moonlight in these regions assumes a novel charm. The rugged peaks, stern and chilling as they are, lose their awful character, and become brilliant as polished pearl; the trees, covered with icicles, seem formed of some rich spar; and the face of nature becoming wholly changed, presents the features of a world calm and tranquil, but still and deathlike.
He was the first that ever crossed
Those pale hills, with their snow,
Whose summits in the clouds are lost,
From whence the cold rills flow.
He stood—the pines at his right hand,
The eagle at his side;
He thought upon his English land,
And Solitude replied.
How strange it must have been to hear
Our own familiar tongue,
Bringing its home and childhood near
Those mountain-tops among.
Within that English traveller’s heart
What deep emotions stirred,
As talked their little band apart,
Each with an English word!
Were they familiar thoughts and fond—
Thoughts linked with early hours,
That scarcely give a look beyond
The present’s fruit and flowers,
That seem to pass like streams away,
And yet that leave behind
Music that many an after day
Will bring again to mind?
’Tis strange how often early years
Will unexpected rise,
And bring back soft and childlike tears
To cold and world-worn eyes.
Soft voices come upon the wind,
Old songs and early prayers,
And feel how much of good and kind
Our weary life still spares.
Or had he lofty thoughts and stern,
Of what before him lay;
Did his aspiring thoughts discern
Honours some future day,
Of science, aided by his toil—
Of knowledge, taught to roam—
Of all the rich and varied spoil
The traveller brings home?
He needed all—the hopes that guide—
The memories that cheer—
For after hours were at his side,
Of care, and pain, and fear.
His was a hard and weary lot,
His hour of wandering past;
Alas! for him awaited not
A welcome home at last.
Strange hands sustained his sinking head,
Strange steps were at his side,
Strange faces bent above the bed,
The bed whereon he died.
I cannot bear to think of this—
Death-lone on that far strange shore;
And yet the death-bed that was his
Awaiteth many more.
Our careless crowds too little think
Of those who work their will;
Of dangers from which we should shrink—
Of toils, while we are still.
Too late some vain regret may wake,
And pity then affords
For some young bold adventurer’s sake,
A few vain tears and words.