A pilgrim, lost upon a frozen height
Of bleak Sierra, struck from flint and steel
A feeble blaze of moss, thereby to kneel
Forlorn of hope, warned that insidious night
Her poignard frore into his heart would smite.
The watchful radiance, like a guardian leal,
Searched through the valleys with a mute appeal,
And one there wandering caught the signal light.
“How beautiful yon mountain meteor beams!
Or is it shining in the heavens far,
Above the peaks?” the musing dalesman said.
“On me and this lone path its kindly gleams
Fall as the rays of Bethlehem's pure star!”
The pilgrim on the frozen height lay dead.