The Juvenaile Poetical Library

Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: MONT BLANC. BY L. E. L. Thou monarch of the upper air, Thou mighty temple given For morning's earliest of light, And evening's last of heaven The vapour from the marsh, the smoke From crowded cities sent, Are purified before they reach Thy loftier element. Thy hues are not of earth, but heaven; Only the...
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Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: MONT BLANC. BY L. E. L. Thou monarch of the upper air, Thou mighty temple given For morning's earliest of light, And evening's last of heaven The vapour from the marsh, the smoke From crowded cities sent, Are purified before they reach Thy loftier element. Thy hues are not of earth, but heaven; Only the sunset rose Hath leave to fling a crimson dye Upon thy stainless snows. Now out on those adventurers Who scaled thy breathless height, And made thy pinnacle, Mont Blanc, A thing for common sight Before that human step had left Its sully on thy brow, The glory of thy forehead made A shrine to those below: Men gazed upon thee as a star, And turn'd to earth again, With dreams like thine own floating clouds, The vague, but not the vain. No feelings are less vain than those That bear the mind away, Till, blent with nature's mysteries, It half forgets its clay; It catches loftier impulses, And owns a nobler power; The poet and philosopher Are born of such an hour. But now where may we seek a place For any spirit's dream ? Our steps have been o'er every soil, Our sails o'er every stream. Those isles, the beautiful Azores, The fortunate, the fair We looked for their perpetual spring, To find it was not there. Bright El Dorado, land of gold, We have so sought for thee, There 's not a spot in all the globe Where such a land can be. How pleasant were the wild beliefs That dwelt in legends old; ? Alas to our posterity Will no such tales be told. We know too much; scroll after scroll Weighs down our weary shelves; THE BOY OF EGREMOND. Our only point of ignorance Is centered in ourselves. Alas for thy past mystery, For thine untrodden snow, Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none To guar...