The hero lives on in the pages of story,Though blood-drops may sully the words that record:His bust shall be crowned with the chaplet of glory;The hand shall be honour'd that rests on the sword.But there's one whose good deeds are scarce noted by any;The field of his valour, the ice-cover'd scalps;'Tis the dumb and the faithful, the saviour of many;The brave and the beautiful Dog of the Alps.
With his mission of mercy, right onward he'll hurry;No wild, howling storm-burst shall turn him aside:Though the tottering avalanche threaten to bury,And the arrowy sleet-shower bristle his hide.We drink health to the bold one, whose strong arm has wrestedThe perishing form from the billowy grave:But a laurel is due to the dog who has breastedThe winding-sheet found in the snow-drifted wave.
Through the fearful ravine, when the thick flakes are fallingO'er peaks, while the cutting wind curdles his breath;He wends his lone way with the wallet-strap galling,To seek the lost pilgrim, and snatch him from death.Where the traveller lies, with his parting breath sighingSome name that he loves in a tremulous prayer;The Dog of the Alps comes with life to the dying;With warmth to the frozen, and hope to despair.
It is not ambition that leads him to danger,He toils for no trophy, he seeks for no fame;He faces all peril, and succours the stranger;But asks not the wide world to blazon his name.'Twould be well if the great ones who boast of their reason,Would copy his work on the winter-bound scalps;And cherish the helpless in sorrow's bleak season,Like the brave and the beautiful Dog of the Alps.
