Classic Poem

M EEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs,
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,
Whence are ye?

Did some white-wing'd messenger,
On mercy's mission, trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows,
And, breathing on the callous icicles,
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?

Tree nor shrub
Dare the drear atmosphere; no polar-pine
Uplifts a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice,
And looking up with steadfast eye to Him,
Who bids ye bloom unblanch'd amid the realm
Of desolation.

Man who, panting, toils
O'er slippery steeps, or treads the dizzy verge
Of yawning gulfs, from whence the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, — looks shuddering up
And marks ye in your placid loveliness,
Fearless yet frail; and, clasping his chill hands,
Blesses your pencil'd beauty. Mid the pomp
Of mountain-summits rushing toward the sky,
And chaining the wrapt soul in breathless awe,
He bows to bind ye, drooping, to his breast,
Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale,
And freer dreams of heaven.