MY ASCENT TO THE GRAND PLATEAU OF MONT BLANC

Par Sir Tollemache Sinclair, I start from the valley with ardour I wend through the forest's cool shade, The track near Pierre Pointue's much harder. But there I am not long delayed.

When I leave the last dwarf vegetation And naught's seen but snow, rock and sky, I feel from this height inclination With haste to Chamounix to fly.

My foot on the glacier presses, |||

Cords join me with guides in a file, f"

The iced breeze my temples caresses,

And I sing Nature's glories meanwhile. n

We soon reach those deep dread crevasses

Where men in all depths find a tomb, I

And e'en those famed peaks the Jorasses "'

By contrast seem safe from Fate's doom.

The flesh creeps and quite new sensations

The mind and the frame then per^ ade ;

With this world I sever relations

Thoughts of Heaven the mind so o'erlade.

Then steps are cut quick in ice sloping

With ladders crevasses we span,

Whilst the bourne for which I'm now hoping,

Seems ever afar in our van.

There's risk from the avalanche crashing

And stones in moraines tumbling down

Or dense mists and fierce tempests lashing

Where men are lost, frozen, or drown.

At night from the Grands Mulets gloating

One looks with delight on the scene,

For peaks of the mountains seem floating

In white clouds, with no land between.

At time when the tempest is bursting.

The thunder resounds far and wide ;

And rain falls where earth's never thirsting

Can man in such scenes e'er feel pride ?

At midnight by starlight when wending

With lanterns we march in a line.

The way to my goal seems ne'er ending,

And I long for the grateful moonshine.

Not e'en here where alone in creation

We breathe with unwonted distress

Has loneliness such a location

As in cities where none does us bless.

From these crags men more hardness can't borrow Than men's feelings these snows oftener melt, These rocks at least echo my sorrow When women no sympathy felt !

We climb by gaunt « Séracs » upstanding Like ghosts showing dangers around.

Guides cut tracks on slopes for a landing. One false step our death-knell might sound.

Anon through the soft snow we're ploughing, My frame for repose has beseeched, Till at last when most weariedly vowing No further I'd go my goal's reached.

My task done, calm steals o'er my senses, The landscape is all bathed in light.

None sees from the vale without lenses. Cannon's roars cannot reach suchand height.

Grand Nature is here most astounding And in forms the sublimest is seen.

And the peaks of the mountains surrounding Contrast with the valley so green.

The pen and the pencil are powerless E'en Byron's great genius would fail.

Cathedrals in contrast seem towerless, With those pinnacles which here prevail. With awe and a strange fascination, Reluctant I take my last view Of scenes scarcely changed since creation, And bid them for ever adieu.

We slid down the snow slopes returning Which, mounting, we scaled with such toil, My heart for those grand views still yearning, And quickly reach rich cultured soil.

Soon the grave will receive my poor ashes, No tears may be shed o'er my bier ; But till Death my fond thoughts abashes Loved Mont Blanc, to me thou'lt be dear.

In thy bosom ah ! wilt thou embalm me, I'd fain be interred in thy snow.

In life no heart e'er tried to calm me, With thee I forget every woe.

I'll fancy thy soft bosom feeling For thy bard one kind pang of regret ; Thy snow's melting fast like tears stealing O'er thy form ah I my sad eyes are wet.

LARMES ET SOURIBES 311