CHAMOUNIX.

Within Thy holy temple have I strayed E’en as a weary child, who from the heat And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought In some cathedral’s vast and shadowy aisle, And trembling, awestruck, croucheth in his rags Where high upreared a mighty pillar stands. Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth Their myriad tiny crosses o’er my head; Deep rolls the organ peal of thunder down The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float Around the great white altar set on high. So lift my heart, O God, and purify My thought, that when I walk once more Amid the busy, anxious, struggling throng, One cup of water from these springs of life, One ray of sunlight from these golden days, One jewel from the mountain’s spotless brow, As tokens of Thy beauty, I may bear To little ones who toil, and long for rest.

’Twas morn, And day was born. Bright in the west the stars still burned, But ever, as the great earth turned, The eastern mountain-tops grew dark Against the rosy heaven—and hark! A single note from flute-toned thrush Drops downward through the twilight hush; Half praise, half prayer, I heard the song: “Oh, sweet, sweet, Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!” The sun Touched one by one The firs along the distant crest,— A silent host, with lance at rest; Flashed all the world with jewels rare, Quivered with joy the maiden-hair Beside the brook that downward sprang And rippling o’er its mosses, sang With silvery laugh the same glad song: “Oh, sweet, sweet, Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!” When lo! Swift, to and fro, A sombre shadow crossed its path, Deep thunders rolled in awful wrath, The thrush beneath the fir-trees crept, The maiden-hair bowed low and wept; The heavens were black, the earth was gray The hills all blanched in the spectral day,— The night-wind rose, and wailed this song: “Oh, long, long, Oh, joy is fleeting, life so long!” Behold, A shaft of gold Shot through the wrack of cloud and storm, The heart of heaven beat quick and warm; From bird and stream, with myriad tongue, The glad day carolled, laughed, and sung. ’Twas morning still! Her tear-drops bright The maiden-hair raised to the light; I heard, half prayer, half praise, the song: “Oh, sweet, sweet, Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”