O'ER the bleak pass huge Alps their shadows throw, With lingering steps I climb the mountain way, While, lessening to their view, mine eyes survey With fond regret the sunlit vale below;— There, 'neath Italian skies ripe vineyards glow, Here scathèd pines a leafless grove display— There living streams through fruitful meadows stray, On barren crags here sleeps eternal snow. Alas! e'en thus the path of life we tread, Where pleasure lures us to the flower-strew'd plain, While virtue points the rough ascent we dread. O! that my soul unto my God were given, Cleans'd by His mercy from all earthly stain, Pure as yon snow that cleaves the vault of Heaven! |