The hero lives on in the pages of story, Though blood-drops may sully the words that record: His bust shall be crowned with the chaplet of glory; The hand shall be honour'd that rests on the sword. But there's one whose good deeds are scarce noted by any; The field of his valour, the ice-cover'd scalps; 'Tis the dumb and the faithful, the saviour of many; The brave and the beautiful Dog of the Alps.
With his mission of mercy, right onward he'll hurry; No wild, howling storm-burst shall turn him aside: Though the tottering avalanche threaten to bury, And the arrowy sleet-shower bristle his hide. We drink health to the bold one, whose strong arm has wrested The perishing form from the billowy grave: But a laurel is due to the dog who has breasted The winding-sheet found in the snow-drifted wave.
Through the fearful ravine, when the thick flakes are falling O'er peaks, while the cutting wind curdles his breath; He wends his lone way with the wallet-strap galling, To seek the lost pilgrim, and snatch him from death. Where the traveller lies, with his parting breath sighing Some name that he loves in a tremulous prayer; The Dog of the Alps comes with life to the dying; With warmth to the frozen, and hope to despair.
It is not ambition that leads him to danger, He toils for no trophy, he seeks for no fame; He faces all peril, and succours the stranger; But asks not the wide world to blazon his name. 'Twould be well if the great ones who boast of their reason, Would copy his work on the winter-bound scalps; And cherish the helpless in sorrow's bleak season, Like the brave and the beautiful Dog of the Alps.
