POETRY.
DAWN AMONG THE ALPS.
A THOUSAND and ten thousand years ago So softly poised the golden-footed day On you high-lifted minarets of snow, That crown the wrinkled glaciers chill and grey.
And on the green knees of those giant scars, Ages ere man arose to mark the hours, The dawn descending kissed awake blue stars Of gentians, and all tender Alpine flowers.
I, now, one moment in the vast of Time, With eyes divinely hungered gazing there, By earthly stairways into Heaven climb, And pass the gates of Eden unaware.
I look, I love, I worship ; yet mine eyes Are held from their desire ; I cannot see What every floweret in its place descries, Or worship as they worship, conscience-free.
Man stands so large before the eyes of man He cannot think of Earth but as his own ; All his philosophies can guess no plan That leaves him not on his imagined throne.
He is so blind he cannot see the glory Of gods hill-haunting—haters of the street; He bath no ears but for the human story, Though lives more lovely blossom at his feet.
Who bath considered what a jewel-girth Of beauty, every hurrying human day, Encircles with divinity the Earth ?
For man's eyes only—where's the fool will say ?
Those shadow-pencilled valleys while I view, Those snow-domes under hyacinthine skies— A Presence is beside me, gazing too, A richer love than mine, and holier eyes.
Or when amid the flowers I kneel, and dream O'er starry morsels of Heaven's sapphire floor, A larger happiness than mine doth seem To dote there too and make my gladness more.
Yes, there are eyes—I know not whose—not man's, For whom the world is fair; some worthier. love Than poet-worship all Earth's wonders scans We gather crumbs—the feast is far above.
F. W. BOTTADILLON.
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