So ran her thought, and broader yet, Who scanned her own by Philip's pace; And never did the wife forget Her grateful tribute for the grace That charged her with so sweet a debt. So ran her thought; and in her breast Her wifely pride to pity grew, That Philip, by his Lord's behest-- To duty and to nature true-- Must do his bravest and his best. Through winter's cold and summer's heat, Where all might praise and all might blame, And thus be topic of the street, And see his fair and honest name A football, kicked by careless feet. She loved her creed, and doubting not She read it well from Nature's scroll, She found no line or word to blot; But, from her woman's modest soul, Thanked her Creator for her lot. VIII. He who, upon an Alpine peak, Stands, when the sunrise lifts the East, And gilds the crown and lights the cheek Of largest monarch down to least, Of all the summits cold and bleak, Finds sadly that it brings no boon For all his long and toilsome leagues, And chill at once and weary soon, Rests from his fevers and fatigues, And waits the recompense of noon, For then the valleys, near and far, The hillsides, fretted by the vine, The glacier-drift and torrent-scar Whose restless waters shoot and shine, And many a tarn, that like a star Trembles and flames with stress of light, And many a hamlet and chalet That dots with brown, or paints with white, The landscape quivering in the day, With beauty all his toil requite. Mountains, from mountain altitudes Are only hills, as bleak and bare; And he whose daring step intrudes Upon their grandeur, and the rare Cold light or gloom that o'er them broods, Finds that with even brow to stand Among the heights that bade him climb, Is loss of all that made them grand, While all of lovely and sublime Looks up to him from lake and land. Great men are few, and stand apart; And seem divinest when remote. From brain to brain, and heart to heart, No thoughts of genial commerce float; Each holds his own exclusive mart. And when we meet them, face to face, And hand to hand their greatness greet, Our steps we willingly retrace, And gather humbly at their feet, With those who live upon their grace. And man and woman--mount and vale-- Have charms, each from the other seen,-- The robe of rose, the coat of mail: The springing turf, the black ravine: The tossing pines, the waving swale: Which please the sight with constant joy. Thus living, each has power to call The other's thoughts with sweet decoy, And one can rise and one can fall But to distemper or destroy. The dewy meadow breeds the cloud That rises on ethereal wings, And wraps the mountain in a shroud From which the living lightning springs And torrents pour, that, lithe and loud,