ALPINE FLOWERS.
93
Man, who panting toils
O'er slippery steeps; or, trembling, treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, from which the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,
And marks ye in your placid loveliness,
Fearless, yet frail; and, clasping his chill hands,
Blesses your pencil'd beauty. Mid the pomp
Of mountain-summits, towering to the skies,
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,
Inhales your fragrance on the frost-wing'd gale,
And freer dreams of Heaven.
