This page has been validated.
66
SHEPHERD POET OF THE ALPS.
Ev'n those, thine own wild places,
Bear of our chain dark traces:
Alas, my brother!
"Far hath the sunbeam spread,
Nor found thy lonely bed;
Long hath the fresh wind sought thee,
Nor one sweet whisper brought thee—
Alas, my brother!
"Thou, that for joy wert born,
Free as the wings of morn!
Will aught thy young life cherish,
Where the Alpine rose would perish?
Alas, my brother!
"Canst thou be singing still,
As once on every hill?
Is not thy soul forsaken,
And the bright gift from thee taken?—
Alas, alas, my brother!"
