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MONT BLANC.
227
How pleasant were the wild beliefs
That dwelt in legends old,
Alas! to our posterity
Will no such tales be told.
We know too much, scroll after scroll
Weighs down our weary shelves;
Our only point of ignorance
Is centered in ourselves.
Alas! for thy past mystery,
For thine untrodden snow,
Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none
To guard thy outraged brow?
Thy summit, once the unapproached,
Hath human presence owned,
With the first step upon thy crest
Mont Blanc, thou wert dethroned.
