IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.

At one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks,
Hid in the hollow of two neighboring hills,
The billowy tempest whelms; till, upward urged,
The valley to a shining mountain swells,
Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky.

39

JAMES THOMSON.
The Seasons.

IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.

(WINTER SUNSET.)

BLOOD-RED a sudden splendor fills

The mountains; and the ice-peaks, hit
With the fierce glory, flare and split,
And headlong through the craggy hills
Flash down, in splintering atom-rills.

Flash down; or, melting, in a flood,
Leap into the low vale, while higher
The fierce sun sets the hills on fire:
And down below, the cold white wood
Seems leafed with burning leaves of blood.

The hot hill-snows in vapor rise
Beneath the brazen, blazing sun:
And all the valleys, one by one,
Roll up an incense to the skies,
The steam of nature's sacrifice.

40

IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
CHAMOUNI.

Blood-red in scarlet-shafted spheres

The huge sun stands: the red ribbed b Glow round him: some huge being he Returning, bleeding, from his wars, Pierced with a thousand fiery spears.

Back reels the simple shepherd, awed: He fears to mark, in flaming light, The huge sun, on the lone hill-height, Where never human foot hath trod, Stand like the awful form of God.

He fears he lifts his horn on high,

And, "Praise the Lord," in worship, blo And, "Praise the Lord," across the sno And white peaks lit with the red sky, A hundred lifted horns reply.

With the loud voice the woods are stirred,

And the low vale, responsive, thrills:
And all the everlasting hills,

From chasm to chasm, with one accord,
Shout to each other, "Praise the Lord."

On, on, the bugled echoes fly:

From vale to echoing mountain, on: Till now, from lands beside the sun, Far lands of light, dim sounds reply, Like angels answering from the sky.

IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.

Again, all peace: white snows alone

Steaming, in purple splendor thawed: Like some white martyr slain for God, With smoke of stakes about him blown, Burning to death without one moan.

And, now, behind the lone hill-height,
The sun drops; and the fierce red beams
Soften to faint and golden gleams,
And silver-shimmering shades of night,
Rose-flushed with lingering hues of light.

From skies, where late the huge sun made Fierce lights, soft dews descend, and stray On each bowed head; as who should say, "Thy God, in awful form arrayed,

Is God of love: be not afraid."

Far up, on one lone peak, a gleam
In soft dim splendor still abides,

And clings about its cold wet sides;
And, down below, the dumb deep stream,
And wood, in deep dumb shadows dream.

Mist-hued, the mellow glory lies
Behind the silver veil of night,
And melts in dewy-dying light:
And softly, through the deepening skies,
Looks, like the soul through dying eyes.

4I

42

WOODS IN WINTER.

The sunset splendors all have died,
But one last ray still gilds the air:
I see one shepherd still in prayer:
I cross the dumb stream's darkened tid
And kneel, O shepherd, at thy side,

And bless that last soft ray with thee,
Which now, far off in Irish night,
Fill two blue eyes at home with light
Which heavenward gaze, in prayer, for
Alone in distant Chamouni.

SAMUEL KENNEDY

WOODS IN WINTER.

WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the ga

With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

DRAG ON, LONG NIGHT OF WINTER

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;

I hear it in the opening year,

I listen, and it cheers me long.

45

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

DRAG ON, LONG NIGHT OF WINTER.

DRAG on, long night of winter, in whose heart,
Nurse of regret, the dead spring yet has part!
Drag on, O night of dreams! O night of fears!
Fed by the summers of the bygone years!

WILLIAM MORRIS.

The Earthly Paradise.