Classic Poem

Where a glacier weeps forever, like the fabled Niobe,
At the feet of monarch mountains in the vale of Chamouni,
Thou wert born, O rapid river! nursed by torrents wild and strong,
And the thunder of the avalanche was thy first cradle-song.

Through a fair and fertile valley, with its purple-laden vines,
Terraced-gardens, groves of linden, Druid oaks and and ancient pines,
Where the summer sunshine golden crowns the Bas Alps far above;
Where the butterflies and breezes woo the rhododendron's love;

Where the Ranz des Vaches comes ringing down from many a green plateau,
While the vesper bells are chiming in the quiet vales below;
By lordly parks and palaces, by homesteads quaint and low,
Where the peasants live as peasants lived five hundred years ago;

Thou hast wandered on for ages, like a pilgrim cowled and gray—
Like a pilgrim sometimes kneeling on the shining sands to pray,
Heedless of the bloom and beauty, of the shadow or the shine,
Counting beads and Ave-Marie's on his way to Palestine.

Thou hast hoarded in thy bosom many a rare and radiant gem
That adorned Mount Bernard's girdle, or Argentier's diadem;
Thou hast stolen perfumed dew-drops from the fairest Alpine flowers,
And filled thy curious scallop-shell from brightest summer showers.

At thy feet the merry cascades fondly fold their snowy wings,
And thee worship with libations from a thousand sparkling springs;
Summer sunshine gaily binds thee with its wealth of golden bars;
Purple twilights clasp and crown thee with a coronal of stars.

Yet thy spirit is as restless, and thy brow as dark and cold,
As if thy life were weary with a trouble never told;
And the murmur of thy voices is like a wail of woe,
Or a miserere chanted in some hopeless world below.

By lordly parks and palaces, by mountains weird and grand,
By ruins where the barons lived who whilom ruled the land,
By peasant's hut and hovel, by hamlets quaint and gray,
To the city of Geneva thou hast made thy winding way.

Where that queen of old Helvetia from her ancient hill looks down,
With the church of sainted Peter wearing still its triple crown,
We have learned, O Arve, thy secret, learned the meaning of thy moan—
For the lady of thy worship is the graceful, blue-eyed Rhone.

Never, surely, came a lover in such strange disguise before;
Never ancient Minne-singer, palmer-knight nor troubadour,
Offered life and love's devotion at so beautiful a shrine,
With a brow so dark and solemn and a voice so sad as thine.

But she scorns thy first advances, and, with most disdainful pride,
Strives to keep her robes unsullied by the darkness of thy tide;
Turns offended from thy presence, spurns thee, shudders and recoils;
Flies, and flings her white arms wildly to unloose them from thy toils.

Then ye journey on together, sad and silent, side by side;
But despair not, bold knight-errant, thou shalt win her for thy bride;
For a love so true is potent, in its passion and its power,
To compel love's sweet responses in some gay, unguarded hour.

Ah, now she turns coquettishly to thee her sunny face,
And all her radiant loveliness is lost in thine embrace;
And forever ye are wedded, wheresoe'er your path may be,
Through the shadow and the sunshine in your journey to the sea.