Classic Poem

Oh, brave may be those bands, perchance,
Who ride where tropic deserts glow, —
Who bring with lasso and with lance
The tiger to their saddle's prow: —
But I would climb the snowy track
Alone, as I have ever been,
And with a chamois on my back,
Descend to merry Meyringen.

Oh, they may sing of eyes of jet,
That melt in passion's dreamy glance, —
Of forms that to the castanet
Sway through the languor of the dance: —
But let me clasp some blue-eyed girl,
Whose arms impulsive clasp again;
And through a storm of music whirl
The dizzy waltz at Meyringen.

And they may sing, as oft they will,
Of joy beneath the southern vine,
And in luxurious banquets fill
Their goblets with the orient wine: —
But when the Alpland winter rolls
His tempests over hill and glen,
Let me sit mid the steaming bowls
That cheer the nights at Meyringen.

Brave men are there with hands adroit
At every game our land deems good, —
To wrestle, or to swing the quoit,
Or drain the bowl of brotherhood: —
And when the last wild chase is through,
We'll sit together, gray-haired men,
And, with the gay Lisette to brew,
Once more be young in Meyringen.