With eagles, choughs, and lammergeyers gaunt;
The mountain marmots, marching o'er the snow,
Their yearly pilgrimage shall ne'er forego;
Tyndall himself, in grand, prophetic tones,
Shall calculate the movement of your bones;
And your renown shall live serene, eternal,
Embalmed in pages of the Alpine Journal!"

* * * * *

By reasoning such as this, year after year,
I overcome my men's unreasoning fear:
Twice has my guide by falling stones been struck,
Yet still I trust his science and my luck.
A falling stone once cut my rope in twain;
We stopped to mend it, and marched on again.
Once a big boulder, with a sudden whack,
Severed my knapsack from my porter's back.
Twice on a sliding avalanche I've slid,
While my companions in its depths were hid.
Daring all dangers, no disaster fearing,
I carry out my plan of mountaineering.
Thus have I conquered glacier, peak, and pass,
Aiguilles du Midi, Cols des Grandes Jorasses.
Thus shall I onward march from peak to peak,
Till there are no new conquests left to seek.
O the wild joy, the unutterable bliss
To hear the coming avalanche's hiss!
Or place oneself in acrobatic pose,
While mountain missiles graze one's sun-burnt nose!