MONT BLANC
From Byron's celebrated poem Manfred.
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ;
They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.
Around his waist are forests braced,
The avalanche is in his hand ; But ere it fall, that thundering ball
Must pause for my command, The glacier's cold and restless mass
Moves onward day by day ; But I am he who bids it pass.
Or with its ice delay.
I am the spirit of the place,
Could make the mountain bow And quiver to his cavern'd base,
And what w ith me would'st Thou.
MONT BLANC AND THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX By SIR T. SINCLAIR
(written on the spot)
'Twas August a bright and fresh morning Beneath the tall pine trees deep shade When I gazed on a scene, whose adorning Of Earth quite a Paradise made.
The Alps' peaks mid virgin snow gleaming Where man's eager foot ne 'er has been, The sun on the landscape bright beaming From these sad hearts solace may glean. The sea changes all tides are reckoned. Winds ever work on it their will.
But no tempest could for one second By one hair's breadth move the least hill.
306 LARMES ET SOURIKES
I view thee, Mont Blanc, with emotion,
A loved friend thou art to me now ;
Thy charm fills my heart like love's potion
Who can grieve while he looks at thy brow ?
Thy grand dome attracts the fell lightning
Whose flashes oft brighten thy crown
My frail pulse when near thee seems heightening
Whilst care for a time thou dost drown.
The lights which set off thy full splendour,
The shadows where mysteries dwell.
Of Heaven and of Hell thoughts engender
And long leave me under their spell.
Whilst Mont Blanc by vastness appals me
Each Aiguille or needle in space
With beauty beyond art enthralls me
For Eden this seems the fit place.
Would that I with one of Eve's daughters
Could here live to love's joys awaked
Ne'er again would I drink Marah's waters,
Such nectar my thirst would have slaked.
Above the whole living creation
Thy summit peers into the sky,
E'en clouds fail on many an occasion
To climb o'er thy peaks towering high.
Cascades din me here with their thunder
And sometimes a rainbow exists
The waters in foam rush thereunder
And leaping fine off into mists.
Spruce forests o'erspread the peak's bases
With birch and with alder combined ;
Whilst bright sward like emeralds blazes
And autumn tints with greens combined.
Three grand Aiguilles o'erhang the village Are they the three Fates turned to stone ? Dru, Blaitiere, and Charmeaux I'd pillage If Destiny's secrets they own.
My favourite Aiguille's that of Charmeaux Which some sculptor's carved work one deems Stone's thrown from its summit might harm us So sheer at night o'er us it seems.
The dawn o'er the high mountains rushes Whilst all the vale still sleeps in shade, And its beams the snow gilds with warm blushes Long after it's dark in the glade.
Thus Hope dawns sometimes on earth's leaders,
When gloom on the masses does fall.
And leaves them bright like sun-lit cedars,
When thousands have long lost it all.
I note then the arrowy river
Not rain-swelled but by thawed snow.
The scent of the pines — of health giver
Wild fruits in profusion which grow.
So warm hearts by kindness are melted
Whilst cold hearts aren't softened by tears,
In South climes by Alpine peaks belted
Smiles win what the North yields to fears.
What ferns there ! What lichens ! What mosses !
Dwai'f shrubs, flowers of every bright hue,
Heart's-ease (would it ease the heart's losses!)
And violets bright with the dew.
Birds singing and swift chamois wary
At times much enliven the scene,
Which squirrels and butterflies vary,
The air gives an appetite keen.
The ice-sea at Montanvert greets me
Waves petrified white by the frost ;
The grand Aiguille Verte's peak there meets me,
Near the Jorasses the Jardin I've crossed.
From the Brevent the eye sees more vailles,
The Buet, Vanoise, and the rest,
At such spots one willingly dallies.
One feels for the moment so blest.
From the Flegere the whole panorama
Is spread out before the glad eye,
Not e'en in Thibet can the Llama
See scenes which with these can e'er vie.
The foreground the valley's base closes
In front an abyss seems the bound
Which sinks to earth's core one supposes
As nought guides the dread depth to sound.
Next th'Aiguille Verte, Dru's peak uprises,
'Tween these points the distance seems small,
Two thousand feet higher Verte's size is
A span it seems hence after all.
Here are flowers, heaths, shade, and sweet waters,
Snow, — cows tinkling bells, and blue sky.
The men quite content with fair daughters,
Their valley they love till they die.
The Dromedary is resplendent,
Like a grand Parian vase filled with light.
The Pic du Midi's shadow seems pendant,
Like a cave near the surface so bright.
A « Serac » translucent is gleaming,
An angel of light it appears.
The next dark in shadow now seeming.
Like a lost spirit it now uproars.
The sunset shows us whiht descending
Like care spreading over our days
At sunrise as quickly ascending
As when love ousting grief with us stays.
In places the snow's undulating The sun leaves there shadows like night, Or satin robes fashioned with plaiting.
The top of each fold bathed in light.
The crags with suffused light are shining, Like smiles on a loved face divine.
The rest in dark shadow is pining, As when on us that face does not shine.
The shadows of peaks are projected For miles on the vale still so cold, Above gorgeous light is reflected, Like frosted and burnished pure gold.
Some Chalets lie high on the mountains,
For all can't find room in that dale,
And here and there gush sweet cool fountains,
Scarce e'en a mile wide's that dear vale.
Ben Nevis and Snowdon united
Atop piled scarce reach half thy height,
The Himalayas and Andes, when sighted,
So near do not show such a sight.
The rocks with all colours are glowing
Red, orange, white, black, brown and green,
Flower-rainbows like earth-stars oft showing
Whilst distance empurples the scene.
On the ledges of cliffs grass is growing,
Where goats are unable to graze,
And fleece-clouds like gauze veils are showing
Ghost-peaks more gigantic in haze.
No painter Mont-Blanc's form could render
Few poets thy charms dare to trace.
Not Lamartine with his strains so tender.
But Coleridge has won in this race.
What is't I now see with my lenses
Moving slow on the summit like flies
Do spirits or imps strike my senses ?
No, they're men's forms which now meet my eyes.
The glad Moon these fairy scenes savours
Her fancy, like ours, they absorb ;
She grants to these Alps her chief favours,
They remind her of peaks in her orb.
Ah I Sun, moon and stars, I'm oft praising
Ye'll cast many a beam on my tomb,
Not fickle are ye like friends gazing
With cold hearts when I meet my doom !
When life's sunset we reach ah ! how sadly
Life ebbing midst deep groans and sighs,
We'll reflect then with tears, oh, how madly
We wasted our life's bright sunrise !
The Calenture or the home sickness
Which by mountaineers is most felt.
When I leave Chamouni then with quickness,
In grief my fond heart's sure to melt.
E'en for Nero one heart lamented.
For me shall not one tear be shed,
Ah I who has not often repented
When affections they scorned are now fled.
