SWITZERLAND.
THE AVALANCHE.
AR, far above the crowded haunts of men,The path-way steep and rocky, upward toils;
The valley drops below in cloud and mist,
While evening shadows hang fantastic folds
On Alps' hoar pinnacles, and craggy cliffs;
The veil of twilight o'er the landscape drops,
Hiding the rosy blush on lingering snows,
That mantle St. Bernard at vesper chime.
'Twas summer in the valley—warm July,
When goat-herds seek the forest shades to rest,
And watch their tinkling flocks the dry grass browse,
And sheaves grow golden in the ripening breeze,
As reapers garner them from nightly dews—
Yet where we were, 'twas Winter, and the snows
Of many months mantled the frozen soil.
