The night came down. The ghostly dark, Made ghostlier by its sheet of snow, Wailed round them its tempestuous wo, Like Death's announcing courier! "Hark There, heard you not the alp-hound's bark? And there again! and there! Ah, no, 'Tis but the blast that mocks us so!" Then through the thick and blackening mist Death glared on them, and breathed so near, Some felt his breath grow almost warm, The while he whispered in their ear Of sleep that should out-dream the storm. Then lower drooped their lids,--when, "List! Now, heard you not the storm-bell ring? And there again, and twice and thrice! Ah, no, 'tis but the thundering Of tempests on a crag of ice!" Death smiled on them, and it seemed good On such a mellow bed to lie The storm was like a lullaby, And drowsy pleasure soothed their blood. But still the sturdy, practised guide His unremitting labour plied; Now this one shook until he woke, And closer wrapt the other's cloak,-- Still shouting with his utmost breath, To startle back the hand of Death, Brave words of cheer! "But, hark again,-- Between the blasts the sound is plain; The storm, inhaling, lulls,--and hark! It is--it is! the alp-dog's bark And on the tempest's passing swell-- The voice of cheer so long debarred-- There swings the Convent's guiding-bell, The sacred bell of Saint Bernard!" DRIFTING My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat A bird afloat, Swings round the purple peaks remote:-- Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While an Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.