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SHEPHERD POET OF THE ALPS.
The turf, o'er their dead mother laid,
Had been their altar when they pray'd;
There, more in tenderness than woe,
The stars had seen their young tears flow;
The clouds, in spirit-like descent,
Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent,
And the wild storms link'd them to each other—
How dear can peril make a brother!
Now is their hearth a forsaken spot,
The vine waves unpruned o'er their mountain-cot;
Away, in that holy affection's might,
The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night;—
She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face,
Filling with soul every secret place,
Hath a dower from heaven, and a gift of sway,
To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way,
Like the sudden flinging forth on high,
Of a banner that startleth silently!
