Ah! what master hand shall paint How they journeyed on their way, How the days grew long and dreary, How their little feet grew weary,
How their little hearts grew faint! Ever swifter day by day Flowed the homeward river; ever More and more its whitening current
Broke and scattered into spray, Till the calmly-flowing river Changed into a mountain torrent, Rushing from its glacier green
Down through chasm and black ravine. Like a phoenix in its nest, Burned the red sun in the West, Sinking in an ashen cloud;
In the East, above the crest Of the sea-like mountain chain, Like a phoenix from its shroud, Came the red sun back again.
Now around them, white with snow, Closed the mountain peaks. Below, Headlong from the precipice Down into the dark abyss,
Plunged the cataract, white with foam; And it said, or seemed to say: “Oh return, while yet you may, Foolish children, to your home,
There the Holy City is!” But the dauntless leader said: “Faint not, though your bleeding feet O'er these slippery paths of sleet
Move but painfully and slowly; Other feet than yours have bled; Other tears than yours been shed Courage! lose not heart or hope;
On the mountains’ southern slope Lies Jerusalem the Holy!” As a white rose in its pride, By the wind in summer-tide
Tossed and loosened from the branch, Showers its petals o'er the ground, From the distant mountain's side, Scattering all its snows around,
With mysterious, muffled sound, Loosened, fell the avalanche. Voices, echoes far and near, Roar of winds and waters blending,
Mists uprising, clouds impending, Filled them with a sense of fear, Formless, nameless, never ending.
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