IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. At one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks, 39 JAMES THOMSON. IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. (WINTER SUNSET.) BLOOD-RED a sudden splendor fills The mountains; and the ice-peaks, hit Flash down; or, melting, in a flood, The hot hill-snows in vapor rise 40 IN THE VALE OF 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: From chasm to chasm, with one accord, 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, 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 And clings about its cold wet sides; Mist-hued, the mellow glory lies 4I 42 WOODS IN WINTER. The sunset splendors all have died, And bless that last soft ray with thee, 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, 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, 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 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, WILLIAM MORRIS. The Earthly Paradise. |