Classic Poem

Day fades apace: its broad red glow
Went up from all the vales below,
And like a flash of lightning sprung
From Alp to hoary Alp, and flung
A momentary crimson streak
On every snow-wreathed mountain peak.
Dark are the clouds that late were roll'd
In red and purple, green and gold;
Even Jura takes a deeper blue,
And all the hills their cold gray hue;
All, save Mont Blanc; — the King of day
Still lingers on his icy rills,
And flings his last and brightest ray
In farewell to the King of hills!

Hush! 'tis a sweet and solemn sound
Floats downward on the clear cold air;
And happy voices waft it round,
And happy hearts are tuned to prayer:
" Praised be the Lord! thine are the days
When storms the mountain cottage blanch;
Thine vintage-time; thine hand upstays,
The snow-wreath and the avalanche! "
" Praised be the Lord! " it echoes round,
Nor one eternal Alp is mute;
And distant cities catch the sound
Like the low breathing of a flute;
" Praised be the Lord! " fear not to sleep, —
His eye shall see; His hand shall keep!