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(III) 60-83
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, Mont Blanc appears -- still, snowy, and serene --
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps; A desert peopled by the storms alone,
Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, And the wolf tracks her there -- how hideously
Its shapes are heap'd around! rude, bare, and high, Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven. -- Is this the scene
Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea
Of fire envelop once this silent snow? None can reply -- all seems eternal now.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be, But for such faith, with Nature reconcil'd;
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity,
Remote, serene, and inaccessible:
And this , the naked countenance of earth, On which I gaze,
even these primeval mountains Teach the adverting mind.
The glaciers creep Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains,
Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power
Have pil'd: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, A city of death, distinct with many a tower
And wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing
Its destin'd path, or in the mangled soil Branchless and shatter'd stand; the rocks, drawn down
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown The limits of the dead and living world,
Never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;
Their food and their retreat for ever gone, So much of life and joy is lost. The race
Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream,
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam,
Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling Meet in the vale, and one majestic River,
The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever Rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves,
Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air.
(V) Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:--the power is there, The still and solemn power of many sights,
And many sounds, and much of life and death. In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there,
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, Or the star-beams dart through them. Winds contend
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods
Over the snow. The secret Strength of things Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome
Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee! And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea,
If to the human mind's imaginings Silence and solitude were vacancy? (1817)