Classic and Contemporary Poetry
STORM ON SAINT BERNARD, by THOMAS BUCHANAN READ Poet's Biography First Line: O heaven, it is a fearful thing Last Line: Melt out the music of my lyre. Subject(s): Alps; Mountains; Saint Bernard (mountain), Switzerland; Hills; Downs (great Britain) | ||||||||
O HEAVEN, it is a fearful thing Beneath the tempest's beating wing To struggle, like a stricken hare When swoops the monarch bird of air; To breast the loud winds' fitful spasms, To brave the cloud and shun the chasms, Tossed like a fretted shallop-sail Between the ocean and the gale. Along the valley, loud and fleet, The rising tempest leapt and roared, And scaled the Alp, till from his seat The throned Eternity of Snow His frequent avalanches poured In thunder to the storm below. The laden tempest wildly broke O'er roaring chasms and rattling cliffs, And on the pathway piled the drifts; And every gust was like a wolf, -- Aud there was one at every cloak, -- That, snarling, dragged toward the gulf. The staggering mule scarce kept his pace, With ears thrown back and shoulders bowed; The surest guide could barely trace The difference 'twixt earth and cloud; And every form, from foot to face, Was in a winding-sheet of snow: The wind, 't was like the voice of woe That howled above their burial-place! And now, to crown their fears, a roar Like ocean battling with the shore, Or like that sound which night and day Breaks through Niagara's veil of spray, From some great height within the cloud, To some immeasured valley driven, Swept down, and with a voice so loud It seemed as it would shatter heaven! The bravest quailed; it swept so near, It made the ruddiest cheek to blanch, While look replied to look in fear, "The avalanche! The avalanche!" It forced the foremost to recoil, Before its sideward billows thrown, -- Who cried, "O God! Here ends our toil! The path is overswept and gone!" The night came down. The ghostly dark, Made ghostlier by its sheet of snow, Wailed round them its tempestuous woe, Like Death's announcing courier! "Hark! There, heard you not the Alp-hound's bark? And there again! and there! Ah, no, 'T is but the blast that mocks us so!" Then through the thick and blackening mist Death glared on them, and breathed so near, Some felt his breath grow almost warm, The while he whispered in their ear Of sleep that should outdream the 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, 't is but the thundering Of tempests on a crag of ice!" Death smiled on them, and it seemed 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, -- Still shouting with his utmost breath, To startle back the hand of Death, Brave words of cheer! "But, hark again, -- Between the blasts the sound is plain; The storm, inhaling, lulls, -- and hark! It is -- it is! the alp-dog's bark! And on the tempest's passing swell, -- The voice of cheer so long debarred, -- There swings the Convent's guiding-bell, The sacred bell of Saint Bernard!" Then how they gained, though chilled and faint, The Convent's hospitable door, And breathed their blessing on the saint Who guards the traveller as of yore, Were long to tell: and then the night And unhoused winter of the height Were rude for audience such as mine; The harp, too, wakes to more delight, The fingers take a freer flight, When warmed between the fire and wine. The storm around the fount of song Has blown its blast so chill and long, What marvel if it freeze or fail, Or that its spray returns in hail! Or, rather, round my Muse's wings The encumbering snow, though melting, clings So thickly she can scarce do more Than flounder where she most would soar. The hand benumbed, reviving, stings, And with thick touches only brings The harp-tones out by fits and spells, -- You needs must note how all the 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CALIFORNIA SORROW: MOUNTAIN VIEW by MARY KINZIE CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOUNTAIN FASTNESS by HAYDEN CARRUTH GREEN MOUNTAIN IDYL by HAYDEN CARRUTH IF IT WERE NOT FOR YOU by HAYDEN CARRUTH DRIFTING by THOMAS BUCHANAN READ |
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