Classic Poem

'Tis sunrise on Saint Bernard's snow,
'Tis dawn within the vale below;
And in Martigny's streets appear
The mule and noisy muleteer;
And tinklings fill the rosy air,
Until the mountain pass seems there,
Up whose steep pathway scarcely stirs
The long, slow line of travellers;
And in the shadowy town is heard
The sound of many a foreign word.

Old men are there, whose locks are white
As yonder cloud which veils the height;
And maidens, whose young cheeks are kissed
By ringlets flashing bright or dark,
Whose hearts are light as yonder mist
That holds the music of the lark —
And youths are there with jest and laugh,
Each bearing his oft-branded staff
To chronicle, when all is done,
The dangerous heights his feet have won.

So toils through life the pilgrim soul
Mid rocky ways and valleys fair;
At every base or glorious goal,
His staff receives the record there —
The names that shall for ever twine,
And blossom like a fragrant vine —
Or, like a serpent, round it cling
Eternally to coil and sting.