  The town of Pleurs, situated among the Alps and containing about two thousand five hundred inhabitants, was overwhelmed in 1618 by the falling of Mount Conto. The avalanche occurred in the night, and no trace of the village or any of its inhabitants could ever after be discovered. 'T was eve; and Mount Conto Reflected in night The sunbeams that fled With the monarch of light; As great souls and noble Reflect evermore The sunshine that gleams From Eternity's shore. Robed the snow-wreath on high, The shadow an angel In passing threw by; And city and valley, In mantle of gray, Seemed bowed like a mourner In silence to pray. And the sweet vesper bell, With a clear, measured chime, Like the falling of minutes In the hour-glass of Time, From mountain to mountain Was echoed afar, Till it died in the distance As light in a star. Had cradled to rest The infant that carolled In peace on her breast; The laborer, ere seeking His couch of repose, Told his beads in the shade of A fortress of snows. Up the cloudless serene Moved the silver-sphered Night; The reveller's palace Was flooded with light; And the cadence of music, The dancer's gay song, In harmony wondrous, Went up, 'mid the throng. With visage of woe, The chiming of hours That were left him below; And the watcher so pale, In the chamber of Death, Bent over the dying With quick, stifled breath. The watchman the midnight Had told with shrill cry, When through the deep silence What sounded on high, With a terrible roar, Like the thunders sublime, Whose voices shall herald The passing of Time? One crash and one thrill— Each pulse in that city For ever stood still. The blue arch with glory Was mantled by day, When the traveller passed On his perilous way;— Lake, valley, and forest In sunshine were clear, But when of that village, In wonder and fear, He questioned the landscape With terror-struck eye, The mountains in majesty Pointed on high! Struggled down through the mould; The miner dug deep For the jewels and gold; And workmen delved ages That sepulchre o'er, But found of the city A trace never more. And now, on the height Of that fathomless tomb, The fair Alpine flowers In loveliness bloom; And the water-falls chant, Through their minster of snow, A mass for the spirits That slumber below. |
|
