Music with pomp and expression may greet us,—
Still Memory will cherish, melodious and free,
The song of the birds that would warble to meet us,
In childhood's gay season, from thicket and tree.
The clouds may be rich, where the sun is reposing,—
But soon must they shroud him in darkness forlorn,
And the day of our life, though it brighten at closing,
Can never restore the enchantments of morn.
THE BABE OF ST. BERNARD.
'Twas night in good St. Bernard's hall,
And winter held his sway,
And round their fire the monks recall
The perils of the day,
Their fruitless search mid storm and blast,
Some traveller to befriend,
And with the tale of perils past,
A hymn of praise they blend.
When loud at their monastic gate
The dog was heard to moan,
Why doth he wander forth so late,
Unguided and alone?—
Long on the dreariest Alpine height
Inured to bold pursuit,
His shaggy coat with frost-work white
In rush'd the lordly brute.
