VIII.

He who, upon an Alpine peak, Stands, when the sunrise lifts the East, And gilds the crown and lights the cheek Of largest monarch down to least,

Of all the summits cold and bleak, Finds sadly that it brings no boon For all his long and toilsome leagues, And chill at once and weary soon,

Rests from his fevers and fatigues, And waits the recompense of noon, For then the valleys, near and far, The hillsides, fretted by the vine,

The glacier-drift and torrent-scar Whose restless waters shoot and shine, And many a tarn, that like a star Trembles and flames with stress of light,

And many a hamlet and chalet That dots with brown, or paints with white, The landscape quivering in the day, With beauty all his toil requite.

Mountains, from mountain altitudes Are only hills, as bleak and bare; And he whose daring step intrudes Upon their grandeur, and the rare

Cold light or gloom that o'er them broods, Finds that with even brow to stand Among the heights that bade him climb, Is loss of all that made them grand,

While all of lovely and sublime Looks up to him from lake and land. Great men are few, and stand apart; And seem divinest when remote.

From brain to brain, and heart to heart, No thoughts of genial commerce float; Each holds his own exclusive mart. And when we meet them, face to face,

And hand to hand their greatness greet, Our steps we willingly retrace, And gather humbly at their feet, With those who live upon their grace.

And man and woman — mount and vale — Have charms, each from the other seen,— The robe of rose, the coat of mail: The springing turf, the black ravine:

The tossing pines, the waving swale: Which please the sight with constant joy. Thus living, each has power to call The other's thoughts with sweet decoy,

And one can rise and one can fall But to distemper or destroy. The dewy meadow breeds the cloud That rises on ethereal wings,

And wraps the mountain in a shroud From which the living lightning springs And torrents pour, that, lithe and loud, Leap down in service to the plains,

Or feed the fountains at their source; And only thus the mountain gains The vital fulness of the force That fills the meadow's myriad veins.

In fair, reciprocal exchange Of good which each appropriates, The meadow and the mountain-range Nourish their beautiful estates;

And lofty wild and lowly grange Thrive on the commerce thus ordained; And not a reek ascends the rock, And not a drift of dew is rained,

But eyrie-brood and tended flock By the sweet gift is entertained. A meadow may be fair and broad, And hold a river in its rest;

Or small, arid with the silver gaud Of a lone lakelet on its breast, Or but a patch, that, overawed, Clings humbly to the mountain's hem:

It matters not: it is the charm That cheers his life, and holds the stem Of every flower that tempts his arm, Or greets his snowy diadem.

Dolts talk of largest and of least, And worse than dolts are they who prate Of Beauty captive to the Beast; For man in woman finds his mate,

And thrones her equal at his feast. She matches meekness with his might, And patience with his power to act,— His judgment with her quicker sight;

And wins by subtlety and tact The battles he can only fight. And she who strives to take the van In conflict, or the common way,

Does outrage to the heavenly plan, And outrage to the finer clay That makes her beautiful to man. All this, and more than this, she saw

Who reigned in Philip's house and heart. Far off, he seemed without a flaw; Close by, her tasteless counterpart, And slave to Nature's common law.

To climb with fierce, familiar stride His dizzy paths of life and thought, Would but degrade him from her pride, And bring the majesty to naught

Which love and distance magnified. If she should grow like him, she knew He would admire and love her less; The eagle's image might be true,

But eagle of the wilderness Would find no consort in the view. A woman, in her woman's sphere, A loyal wife and worshipper,

She only thirsted to appear As fair to him as he to her, And fairer still, from year to year. And he who quickly learned to purge

His fancy of the tender whim That she was floating at the verge Of womanhood, half hid to him, Saw her with gracious mien emerge,

And stand full-robed upon the shore, With faculties and charms unguessed; With wondrous eyes that looked before, And hands that helped and words that blessed —

The mistress of an alien lore Beyond the wisdom of the schools And all his manly power to win; With handicraft of tricks and tools

That conjured marvels with a pin, And miracles with skeins and spools! She seemed to mock his dusty dearth With flowers that sprang beneath his eyes;

Till all he was, seemed little worth, And she he deemed so little wise, Became the wisest of the earth. In all the struggles of his soul,

And all the strifes his soul abhorred, She shone before him like a goal — A shady power of fresh reward — A shallop riding in the mole,

That waited with obedient helm To bear him over sparkling seas, Into a new and fragrant realm, Before the vigor of a breeze

That drove, but would not overwhelm.