# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/The Babe of St. Bernard

THE BABE OF ST. BERNARD.
'Twas night in good St. Bernard's hall,
 And winter held his sway,
And round their fire the monks recall
 The perils of the day,
Their fruitless search mid storm and blast,
 Some traveller to befriend,
And with the tale of perils past,
 A hymn of praise they blend.
When loud at their monastic gate
 The dog was heard to moan,
Why doth he wander forth so late,
 Unguided and alone?—
Long on the dreariest Alpine height
 Inured to bold pursuit, His shaggy coat with frost-work white
 In rush'd the lordly brute.
And crouching at his master's feet
 A burden strange he laid,
A beauteous babe, with aspect sweet,
 Close wrapt in silken plaid.
Not she of Egypt's royal blood
 Was moved with more surprise,
When from the bosom of the flood,
 She heard an infant's cries.
Shelter and rest, and needful food,
 The noble dog disdain'd, But with persuasion fondly rude
 The aid of man obtain'd.
They follow, though the tempest raves,
 Their trembling torches glow,
O'er cliffs, and gulfs, and travellers' graves,
 And trackless wastes of snow.
With fawn and whine their faithful guide
 Allured o'er barriers cold,
And leaping from his master's side,
 Upraised a garment's fold.
Oh God of Mercy!—what was there,
 Enrobed in vestments white?—
What lovely one with brow so fair
 Hath dared such fearful night?—
Seal'd was that eye with pencil'd arch,
 So exquisitely wrought,
Yet Death had left in hasty march
 No trace of torturing thought.
For lingering o'er the pallid face
 Was that expression mild,
With which a youthful mother's grace
 Doth lull her grieving child.
Those parted lips the babe beloved
 Had sooth'd with freezing breath,
And that cold arm's fond curve had proved
 His pillow even in death.
Yet still the fatal blasts would rove
 Wild through her clustering hair,
Those blasts which to a seraph's love
 Had changed a mother's care.
And oh! it was a fearful sight,
 As on with measured tread,
O'er many a dark and slippery height,
 They bare the beauteous dead.
The infant clasp'd in monkish arms
 Sprang from his broken rest,
And eager hid his cherub charms
 Deep in her marble breast.
"Boy,—boy,—'tis vain!"—yet fast the tears
 O'er furrow'd features ran,
To see how twine with infant years
 The miseries of man.
When thrice the morn with sceptre fair
 The angry clouds had quell'd, With mass and dirge and murmur'd prayer  The funeral rites they held.
Ranged in a charnel drear and dim
 A lifeless throng appear,
With blacken'd brow, and rigid limb
 Embalm'd by frost severe.
Strangers were there from many a clime
 Upright in firm array,
Bold men who fell before their time,
 The Avalanche's prey.
They placed her in her niche of stone
 With meek, reclining head,
And there her beauty strangely shone
 A pearl among the dead.
She seem'd like pale, sepulchral lamp,  To light that spectred gloom,
Unquench'd by vapours dense and damp,
 That haunt the mouldering tomb.
And now the orphan found a home
 Where those lone arches bend,
Throughout that calm, monastic dome
 The favorite and the friend.
Soft cradled in their peaceful arms
 His evening dream would fleet,
And morn that roused his opening charms
 Renew'd their kindness sweet.
For they whom no domestic ties
 With gentle force comprest,
Perceived a new affection rise
 To glad the hermit breast.
So there his wondrous beauty woke
 Amid that hoary throng,
Like rosebud on some rugged oak
 Engrafted strange and strong.
In vain they sought of every guest
 His parentage to trace,
But his high brow and fearless breast
 Bespoke a generous race.
His grateful heart their love repaid,
 Contented with its lot,
Nor was his brave deliverer's aid
 In cold neglect forgot.
Him, by the fire he fondly placed,
 With flowers his head would deck,
And oft with ivory arms embraced
 His huge and stately neck.
That noble dog his sports would share,
 Observant when he smiled,
Or rousing with a lion's air
 Would guard the trusting child,
Who seated on his brawny back
 Oft ventured down the steep
With tiny staff to search the track
 Mid snowy valleys deep.
Their home amid this realm of frost,
 These men devout had made,
To seek the wandering, save the lost,
 And lend the dying aid.
Alike on every wretch distrest
 Their dew of mercy falls,
And many a traveller's soul hath blest
 St. Bernard's holy walls.
Thus nurtured by the men of heaven,
 This idol of their care
To every hallow'd work was given,
 Of pity or of prayer.—
When from the glacier's gulfs profound,
 The wreck of life was drawn,
Or broke beneath some snowy mound
 The sleep of death forlorn;
The arts to sooth such pangs severe
 Those little hands would ply;
And sometimes as he toil'd, a tear
 Swam in his lucid eye.
Fair boy!—what woes thy bosom stir,
 Thus on thy bended knee?—
Say,—dost thou shed those tears for her
 Who gave her life for thee?
Oft too, at vesper's holy call,
 When day's departing beam
Pour'd lingering o'er the statued wall
 A rich and radiant stream.
His blue eye beam'd with such a ray
 Of pure and saintlike joy,
The monks would cross themselves and say,
 That angels loved the boy.
But once, when Spring with aspect meek,
 Smiled on dissolving snows,
His mother's paleness mark'd his cheek,
 And to her arms he rose.