Poems (Eckley)/The Avalanche
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SWITZERLAND.
AR, far above the crowded haunts of men,
The path-way steep and rocky, upward toils;
The valley drops below in cloud and mist,
While evening shadows hang fantastic folds
On Alps' hoar pinnacles, and craggy cliffs;
The veil of twilight o'er the landscape drops,
Hiding the rosy blush on lingering snows,
That mantle St. Bernard at vesper chime.
'Twas summer in the valley—warm July,
When goat-herds seek the forest shades to rest,
And watch their tinkling flocks the dry grass browse,
And sheaves grow golden in the ripening breeze,
As reapers garner them from nightly dews—
Yet where we were, 'twas Winter, and the snows
Of many months mantled the frozen soil.
Alone with God we were—far, far above
The narrow sympathies of valley life,
'Mid those vast heights, where nature's sterner front
Makes play-ground for the elements unchained!
How grey the shadows on the mountain fall,
Dashed with a tint of purple from the sun,
Whose palette heaped with broken colours lay
In gorgeous tints upon the hoary rocks
Hurled down by avalanche, or mountain slide.
E'en bird, nor insect, had mistook their way
From shelters safe below in sunlight wrapt,
To flutter wing in frosty Alpine breeze—
Naught but wild flowers smiled upon our path;
The Soldanella raised her pale fringed cheek
From some more sheltered cliff, or gentian blue
Clustered 'mid tufted ferns, that waved their crests
Like warriors' plumes o'er icy fields of Death.
The path grew steeper, and more keen the air,
As into regions of eternal snows,
Our upward pathway tortuously wound.
At length we pause, dismount, on ice-crust stand
Beside a grave, a traveller's lonely grave;
Down twenty feet of snow and treacherous ice,
Lurked this dark sepulchre in shiv'ring drifts.
No mourner's tear had wet the new-made turf,
And bid the golden flow'r of Hope to bloom,
No faithful footstep here had worn a path,
To lay a last flow'r on a loved one's tomb;
A broken sledge, a bag of chesnuts, rice,
The white drift stain, and tell the awful tale.
Now the dread avalanche, Death's sudden bolt,
Had spent its rage, and in that hollow lay,
Its journey ended, and its mission done.
One night, a travelling-merchant with his sledge,
The blazing fire-side of the Hospice left,
To brave the terrors of a stormy night
Below that fatal mountain, grand "Mont Mort,"
To thread his lonely way o'er pathless drifts,
To wife and child in the valley safe below.
But death was hiding in that frozen gloom,
And while the traveller with his sledge toiled on,
Death met him, struck him, in that waste of snows,
And ere a smothered prayer its way could wing
To Him "whose chariot rides upon the storm,"
The wave of the avalanche had swamped life's barque,
And wrecked its victim on the unknown shore,
Wrapped in a winding-sheet of glittering ice.
The morning came—from pearly shadows stole
A rosy blush upon the snow-clad peaks,
The north wind's bitter requiem mournful sung,
And bore upon its breath the frosty flakes,
Whose glittering spangles kissed the traveller's grave;
No tossed-up turf in impious hurry thrown
By sexton's spade, a new-made grave revealed—
Each faltering foot-print on the virgin snow,
And track of sledge long since had been wiped out.
Perchance some hungry wolf, or vulture keen,
Had stoop'd to track the buried victim's rest;
Naught else—not e'en St. Bernard's faithful dogs,
The mystery had traced, till seven white moons
Had flung their silver shields upon that grave—
To none but God was known the mystery
Of that wild fearful night below ¢ Mont Mort!"
SWITZERLAND.
THE AVALANCHE.
AR, far above the crowded haunts of men,The path-way steep and rocky, upward toils;
The valley drops below in cloud and mist,
While evening shadows hang fantastic folds
On Alps' hoar pinnacles, and craggy cliffs;
The veil of twilight o'er the landscape drops,
Hiding the rosy blush on lingering snows,
That mantle St. Bernard at vesper chime.
'Twas summer in the valley—warm July,
When goat-herds seek the forest shades to rest,
And watch their tinkling flocks the dry grass browse,
And sheaves grow golden in the ripening breeze,
As reapers garner them from nightly dews—
Yet where we were, 'twas Winter, and the snows
Of many months mantled the frozen soil.
Alone with God we were—far, far above
The narrow sympathies of valley life,
'Mid those vast heights, where nature's sterner front
Makes play-ground for the elements unchained!
How grey the shadows on the mountain fall,
Dashed with a tint of purple from the sun,
Whose palette heaped with broken colours lay
In gorgeous tints upon the hoary rocks
Hurled down by avalanche, or mountain slide.
E'en bird, nor insect, had mistook their way
From shelters safe below in sunlight wrapt,
To flutter wing in frosty Alpine breeze—
Naught but wild flowers smiled upon our path;
The Soldanella raised her pale fringed cheek
From some more sheltered cliff, or gentian blue
Clustered 'mid tufted ferns, that waved their crests
Like warriors' plumes o'er icy fields of Death.
The path grew steeper, and more keen the air,
As into regions of eternal snows,
Our upward pathway tortuously wound.
At length we pause, dismount, on ice-crust stand
Beside a grave, a traveller's lonely grave;
Down twenty feet of snow and treacherous ice,
Lurked this dark sepulchre in shiv'ring drifts.
No mourner's tear had wet the new-made turf,
And bid the golden flow'r of Hope to bloom,
No faithful footstep here had worn a path,
To lay a last flow'r on a loved one's tomb;
A broken sledge, a bag of chesnuts, rice,
The white drift stain, and tell the awful tale.
Now the dread avalanche, Death's sudden bolt,
Had spent its rage, and in that hollow lay,
Its journey ended, and its mission done.
One night, a travelling-merchant with his sledge,
The blazing fire-side of the Hospice left,
To brave the terrors of a stormy night
Below that fatal mountain, grand "Mont Mort,"
To thread his lonely way o'er pathless drifts,
To wife and child in the valley safe below.
But death was hiding in that frozen gloom,
And while the traveller with his sledge toiled on,
Death met him, struck him, in that waste of snows,
And ere a smothered prayer its way could wing
To Him "whose chariot rides upon the storm,"
The wave of the avalanche had swamped life's barque,
And wrecked its victim on the unknown shore,
Wrapped in a winding-sheet of glittering ice.
The morning came—from pearly shadows stole
A rosy blush upon the snow-clad peaks,
The north wind's bitter requiem mournful sung,
And bore upon its breath the frosty flakes,
Whose glittering spangles kissed the traveller's grave;
No tossed-up turf in impious hurry thrown
By sexton's spade, a new-made grave revealed—
Each faltering foot-print on the virgin snow,
And track of sledge long since had been wiped out.
Perchance some hungry wolf, or vulture keen,
Had stoop'd to track the buried victim's rest;
Naught else—not e'en St. Bernard's faithful dogs,
The mystery had traced, till seven white moons
Had flung their silver shields upon that grave—
To none but God was known the mystery
Of that wild fearful night below ¢ Mont Mort!"
N.B. An avalanche had occurred in the February previous, and the travelling merchant, who had started from the Hospice with three other men, perished, and their bodies were not discovered until the following August.
Hospice of the Great St. Bernard, 1836.