MONT BLANC, AT SUNSET.
HE monarch dies on couch of state, Pillowed in drifts of snow,Tho' smiling faint in rosy flush, On valley glooms below.How fleeting,—transient is the spell, The Benediction given,And then the pall of night must hide The snowy couch in heaven.
Now falls the fixéd look of death, A lurid light plays o'erThe monarch's face that faintly flushed, But a brief spell before.
E'en funeral pines retreat beneath— Procession mournful, slow,The night wind breathes her solemn dirge, And dies in the vales below.
