Swept down along the swelling gale,
And made the stoutest hearer quail.
"I charge ye, on! I charge ye; speed!
And every gust proclaims the need.
By all the surest mountain signs,
By all the wailing of the winds,-
And by the sobbing of the pines,-
And by that avalanche which now
Gives warning through the vale
below,-

By yonder rising cloud, whose wrath
Makes desperate the safest path,
I know the blast must soon perform
The bidding of the monarch storm."

Then lower drooped their lids,-—when, "List!

Now, heard you not the storm-bell ring?

And there again, and twice, and thrice!

Ah, no, 'tis but the thundering
Of tempests on a crag of ice!"

good

On such a mellow bed to lie: The storm was like a lullaby, And drowsy pleasure soothed their blood.

But still the sturdy, practised guide His unremitting labor plied;

Now this one shook until he woke, And closer wrapt the other's cloak,

strings Together jar like icicles!

Then heap the hearth and spread the

board,

And let the glowing flasks be poured,
While I beside the roaring fire
Melt out the music of my lyre.

IN THE CONVENT OF ST. BERNARD.

OH, it is a joy to gaze
Where the great logs lie ablaze;
Thus to list the garrulous flame
Muttering like some ancient dame;
And to hear the sap recount
Stories of its native mount,
Telling of the summer weather,
When the trees swayed all together,-
How the little birds would launch
Arrowy songs from branch to branch,
Till the leaves with pleasure glistened,
And each great bough hung and
listened

To the song of thrush and linnet,
When securely lodged within it,
With all pleasant sounds that dally
Round the hill and in the valley;
Till each log and branch and splinter
On the ancient hearth of Winter
Can do naught but tell the story
Of its transient summer glory.

Oh, there's tranquil joy in gazing
Where these great logs lie a blazing,
While the wizard flame is sparkling,
The memorial shadows darkling
Swim the wall in strange mutation,
Till the marvelling contemplation
Feeds its wonder to repletion
With each firelight apparition.

There the ashen Alp appears,
And its glowing head uprears,
Like a warrior grim and bold,
With a helmet on of gold;
And a music goes and comes
Like the sound of distant drums.

O'er a line of serried lances How the blazing banner dances, While red pennons rise and fall Over ancient Hannibal.

And in that red ember fell
Gessler, with the dart of Tell!

Still they fall away, and, lo!
Other phantoms come and go,
Other banners wing the air,—
And the countless bayonets glare,
While around the steep way stir
Armies of the conqueror;
And the slow mule toiling on
Bears the world's Napoleon.

Now the transient flame that flashes
'Twixt the great logs and the ashes,
Sends a voice out from the middle
That my soul cannot unriddle,
Till the fire above and under
Gnaws the stoutest wood asunder,
And the brands, in ruin blended,
Smoking, lie uncomprehended,-
While the dying embers blanch,
And the muffled avalanche,
Noiseless as the years descend,
Sweeps them to an ashen end.
Thus at last the great shall be,

And the slave shall lie with them,

Pié Jesu Domine

Dona eis requiem!

Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail

My hand I trail

Within the shadow of the sail,

A joy intense,

The cooling sense

Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies

Where Summer sings and never dies:
O'erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines

Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid

The cliffs amid,

Are gambolling with the gambolling

kid;