In the glistening gold of the morning bright,
It shines, detaching some lance of light,
Or, as warrior’s armor
rings;
It forages forests that ferment around,
Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found,
Where the west its radiance
flings.
Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head
Where snow-clad Alps around are spread,
By furious gale ’tis
thrown.
From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away,
And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray,
The giant mountain’s
crown!
Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled,
In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed;
On its side the rainbow plays,
And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below,
The last slanting ray on its crest of snow
Makes its cap like a crater
to blaze.
In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of
light,
The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight,
The eagle afar is driven;
The deluge but roars in despair to its feet,
And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet,
So near doth it rise to heaven.
Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear,
Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near;
On the starry vault to gaze,
And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night,
On th’ horizon high heaving, like arches of
light,
Till again the sun shall blaze.
For then will the glacier with glory be graced,
On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be
placed,
The morn its echoes greet;
Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life,
Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife,
When waters on waters meet.
As the spirit of poesy touches my thought,
It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought,
From earth, with the waters
of pain.
As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends,
These fly to the heavens—their course never
ends,
But descend to the ocean again.
Author of “Critical Essays."
("Moi, quelque soit le monde.")
[XV., May 11, 1830.]
For me, whate’er my life and lot may show,
Years blank with gloom or cheered by mem’ry’s
glow,
Turmoil or peace; never be it mine, I
pray,
To be a dweller of the peopled earth,
Save ’neath a roof alive with children’s
mirth
Loud through the livelong day.
So, if my hap it be to see once more
Those scenes my footsteps tottered in before,
An infant follower in Napoleon’s
train:
Rodrigo’s holds, Valencia and Leon,
And both Castiles, and mated Aragon;
Ne’er be it mine, O Spain!
To pass thy plains with cities scant between,
Thy stately arches flung o’er deep ravine,
Thy palaces, of Moor’s or Roman’s
time;
Or the swift makings of thy Guadalquiver,
Save in those gilded cars, where bells forever
Ring their melodious chime.
