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Mont Bland, at Sunset.
Each frozen crest of glacier wave, Tunes its own mournful note,And funeral hymns in solemn strain, Sad o'er the wave-crests float.
One, two, three pines walk in the rear, Like mourners in a train,Reluctant steps the last to hear The organ's farewell strain.
The opal curtains of the West Now drape the cloud-built tomb;The king is dead, speak softly ye— Ye in the valley's gloom.
Let no harsh voice, no sigh, nor sob Around this picture lower,But human souls in Alpine vale, Yield reverence to the hour.
Let funeral bell still toll its knell, From craggy heights above,And village chime, still ring its rhyme In harmony and love.
