Pleurs.

The town of Pleurs, situated among the Alps and containing about two thousand five hundred inhabitants, was overwhelmed in 1618 by the falling of Mount Conto. The avalanche occurred in the night, and no trace of the village or any of its inhabitants could ever after be discovered.

'T was eve; and Mount Conto

Reflected in night

The sunbeams that fled

With the monarch of light;

As great souls and noble

Reflect evermore

The sunshine that gleams

From Eternity's shore.

A slight crimson veil

Robed the snow-wreath on high,

The shadow an angel

In passing threw by;

And city and valley,

In mantle of gray,

Seemed bowed like a mourner

In silence to pray.

And the sweet vesper bell,

With a clear, measured chime,

Like the falling of minutes

In the hour-glass of Time,

From mountain to mountain

Was echoed afar,

Till it died in the distance

As light in a star.

The young peasant mother

Had cradled to rest

The infant that carolled

In peace on her breast;

The laborer, ere seeking

His couch of repose,

Told his beads in the shade of

A fortress of snows.

Up the cloudless serene

Moved the silver-sphered Night;

The reveller's palace

Was flooded with light;

And the cadence of music,

The dancer's gay song,

In harmony wondrous,

Went up, 'mid the throng.

The criminal counted,

With visage of woe,

The chiming of hours

That were left him below;

And the watcher so pale,

In the chamber of Death,

Bent over the dying

With quick, stifled breath.

The watchman the midnight

Had told with shrill cry,

When through the deep silence

What sounded on high,

With a terrible roar,

Like the thunders sublime,

Whose voices shall herald

The passing of Time?

On came the destroyer;--

One crash and one thrill--

Each pulse in that city

For ever stood still.

The blue arch with glory

Was mantled by day,

When the traveller passed

On his perilous way;--

Lake, valley, and forest

In sunshine were clear,

But when of that village,

In wonder and fear,

He questioned the landscape

With terror-struck eye,

The mountains in majesty

Pointed on high!

The strong arm of Love

Struggled down through the mould;

The miner dug deep

For the jewels and gold;

And workmen delved ages

That sepulchre o'er,

But found of the city

A trace never more.

And now, on the height

Of that fathomless tomb,

The fair Alpine flowers

In loveliness bloom;

And the water-falls chant,

Through their minster of snow,

A mass for the spirits

That slumber below.