Poetry
Coronach for a Mountaineer
(For B. L. G.)
THE mist drops low on crag and corrie, The evening settles on scaur and ben, Homes the late eagle from his foray, The light goes out of the silent glen ; The night closes, the shadows soften On granite mountain and heather hill ; And the climbing feet that came so often Are still, are still,
And they will not come again.
The eye that measured the climb before it, The feet that followed the eye that led, The strength that shouldered the pack and bore it, The gallant body, the steadfast head, And the great heart that drove them higher Till the peak was scaled and the summit won,
Ever a fighter, ever a trier—
All, all are done, And the climber of hills is dead.
Lover of mountains ! The twilight lingers On the Alpine snows and the Highland serves ; Eve with her soft, caressing fingers Smoothes out furrow and fold and crease That Dawn may light them again to-morrow As the endless aeons of dawns must do ; But the night that falls is a night of sorrow ; Not you, not you Shall see that dawn on these.
The night falls dark on crag and corrie Now where the suns of noonday shone,
Homes the last eagle from his foray ; But—there must he mountains where you have gone ;
Hills, great hills, to be friend and foe to, Hills to comfort you, hills to cheer ; Wherever lovers of mountains go to, There, as here,
Climb on, old friend, climb on I HILTON BROWS•
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