Page:Bijou 1829.pdf/10



How pleasant were the wild beliefs That dwelt in legends old, Alas! to our posterity Will no such tales be told. We know too much, scroll after scroll Weighs down our weary shelves; Our only point of ignorance Is centered in ourselves. Alas! for thy past mystery, For thine untrodden snow, Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none To guard thy outraged brow? Thy summit, once the unapproached, Hath human presence owned, With the first step upon thy crest Mont Blanc, thou wert dethroned.