Italy : 5. The Descent Poem by Samuel Rogers

My mule refreshed -- and, let the truth be told,
He was nor dull nor contradictory,
But patient, diligent, and sure of foot,
Shunning the loose stone on the precipice,
Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch,
Trying, detecting, where the surface smiled;
And with deliberate courage sliding down,
Where in his sledge the Laplander had turned
With looks aghast -- my mule refreshed, his bells
Gingled once more, the signal to depart,
And we set out in the grey light of dawn,
Descending rapidly -- by waterfalls
Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice
That in their long career had stopped mid-way.
At length, unchecked, unbidden, he stood still;
And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide,
Lowering his voice, addressed me: 'Thro' this Gap
On and say nothing -- lest a word, a breath
Bring down a winter's snow -- enough to whelm
The armed files, that, night and day, were seen
Winding from cliff to cliff in loose array
To conquer at Marengo. Though long since,
Well I remember how I met them here,
As the sun set far down, purpling the west;
And how Napoleon, he himself, no less,
Wrapt in his cloak -- I could not be deceived --
Reined in his horse, and asked me, as I passed,
How far 'twas to St. Remi. Where the rock
Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away,
Narrows almost to nothing at the base,
'Twas there; and down along the brink he led
To Victory! -- Desaix, who turned the scale,
Leaving his life-blood in that famous field,
(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot
In the blue haze) sleeps, as you saw at dawn,
Just where we entered, in the Hospital-church.'
So saying, for a while he held his peace,
Awe-struck beneath the dreadful canopy;
But soon, the danger passed, launched forth again.