25 SEPTEMBER 1875, Page 15

POETRY.

AMONG THE GLACIERS.

LAND of the Beacon hills that flame up white, And spread as from on high a word sublime, How is it that upon the roll of Time

Thy sons have rarely writ their names in light?

Land where the voices of loud waters throng,

Where avalanches strike the mountains' side,—

Here men have wiv'd and toil'd, have wept and died, And all in silence hearken'd to thy song.

Is it the vastness of the temple frowning On changing symbols of the artist's faith, Is it the volume of the music drowning The utterance of his frail and fleeting breath, That shames all forms of worship and of praise, Save the still service of laborious days?

EMILY PFEIFFER.