Poems (Eckley)/Mont Blanc, at Sunset

by Sophia May Eckley

MONT BLANC, AT SUNSET.

HE monarch dies on couch of state,
 Pillowed in drifts of snow,
Tho' smiling faint in rosy flush,
 On valley glooms below.

How fleeting,—transient is the spell,
 The Benediction given,
And then the pall of night must hide
 The snowy couch in heaven.

Now falls the fixéd look of death,
 A lurid light plays o'er
The monarch's face that faintly flushed,
 But a brief spell before.

E'en funeral pines retreat beneath—
 Procession mournful, slow,
The night wind breathes her solemn dirge,
 And dies in the vales below.

Each frozen crest of glacier wave,
 Tunes its own mournful note,
And funeral hymns in solemn strain,
 Sad o'er the wave-crests float.

One, two, three pines walk in the rear,
 Like mourners in a train,
Reluctant steps the last to hear
 The organ's farewell strain.

The opal curtains of the West
 Now drape the cloud-built tomb;
The king is dead, speak softly ye—
 Ye in the valley's gloom.

Let no harsh voice, no sigh, nor sob
 Around this picture lower,
But human souls in Alpine vale,
 Yield reverence to the hour.

Let funeral bell still toll its knell,
 From craggy heights above,
And village chime, still ring its rhyme
 In harmony and love.

Tho' day lies on his couch of state,
 Pillowed in drifts of snow,
Yet parting smile and rosy blush
 Fall on the vales below.

A lesson here—a solemn voice
 Pleads from the dizzy height—
Thus should ye die like parting day,
 And leave your lamp of Light—

A lamp of Light that ever bright
 Shall burn in hearts ye leave;
From dying day on Alpine height,
 This lesson we receive.