Volume Iii Part 28 (2/2)

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the elements!

Utter forth G.o.d, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, h.o.a.r Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-- Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise!

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread amba.s.sador from Earth to Heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises G.o.d.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

THE PEAKS

In the night Gray, heavy clouds m.u.f.fled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward G.o.d alone.

”O Master, that movest the wind with a finger, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.

Grant that we may run swiftly across the world To huddle in wors.h.i.+p at Thy feet.”

In the morning A noise of men at work came through the clear blue miles, And the little black cities were apparent.

”O Master, that knowest the meaning of raindrops, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.

Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord, That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun.”

In the evening The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.

”O Master, Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds, Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks.

Thou only needest eternal patience; We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord-- Humble, idle, futile peaks.”

In the night Gray, heavy clouds m.u.f.fled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward G.o.d alone.

Stephen Crane [1871-1900]

KINCHINJUNGA Next To Everest Highest Of Mountains

O white priest of Eternity, around Whose lofty summit veiling clouds arise Of the earth's immemorial sacrifice To Brahma, in whose breath all lives and dies; O hierarch enrobed in timeless snows, First-born of Asia, whose maternal throes Seem changed now to a million human woes, Holy thou art and still! Be so, nor sound One sigh of all the mystery in thee found.

For in this world too much is overclear, Immortal ministrant to many lands, From whose ice altars flow, to fainting sands, Rivers that each libation poured expands.

Too much is known, O Ganges-giving sire: Thy people fathom life, and find it dire; Thy people fathom death, and, in it, fire To live again, though in Illusion's sphere, Behold concealed as grief is in a tear.

Wherefore continue, still enshrined, thy rites, Though dark Tibet, that dread ascetic, falls, In strange austerity, whose trance appals,-- Before thee, and a suppliant on thee calls.

Continue still thy silence high and sure, That something beyond fleeting may endure-- Something that shall forevermore allure Imagination on to mystic flights Wherein alone no wing of evil lights.

Yea, wrap thy awful gulfs and acolytes Of lifted granite round with reachless snows.

Stand for eternity, while pilgrim rows Of all the nations envy thy repose.

Ensheath thy swart sublimities, unscaled; Be that alone on earth which has not failed; Be that which never yet has yearned nor ailed, But since primeval Power upreared thy heights Has stood above all deaths and all delights.

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