126

THE ALPINE HUNTER.

"Wilt thou not, thy herds assembling,
Lure with lively horn along?
Sweet their clear bells tinkle trembling,
Sweet the echoing woods among!

66 Mother, mother, let me go
O'er the wilds to chase the roe."

66 See the flowers that smile unto thee, Wilt thou tend them not, my child? On the height no gardens woo thee,

Wild is nature on the wild." "Leave the flowers in peace to blow; Mother, mother, let me go."

Forth the hunter bounds unheeding,
On his hardy footsteps press;
Hot and eager, blindly speeding
To the mountain's last recess :
Swift, before him, as the wind,
Panting, trembling, flies the hind.

Up the ribbed crag tops driven,
Up she clambers, steep on steep:
O'er the rocks asunder riven

Springs her dizzy, daring leap;
Still unwearied, with the bow
Of death, behind her flies the foe.

On the peak that rudely, drearly

Jags the summit, bleak and hoar,
Where the rocks, descending sheerly,
Leave to flight no path before;
There she bolts at last, to find
Chasms beneath-the foe behind.

THE ALPINE HUNTER.

127

To the hard man-dumb, lamenting,
Turns her look of pleading woe;
Turns in vain-the unrelenting

Meets the look, and bends the bow:
Yawn'd the rock; from his abode

Forth the mountain Genius strode.

And, his godlike hand extending,
From the hunter snatched the prey,
"Wherefore, woe and slaughter sending
To my solitary sway?

Why should my herds before thee fall?

There's room on the earth for all!"

SIR E. BULWER LYTTON. [From the German of Schiller.]

126

THE ALPINE HUNTER.

"Wilt thou not, thy herds assembling,
Lure with lively horn along?
Sweet their clear bells tinkle trembling,

Sweet the echoing woods among!

66 Mother, mother, let me go

O'er the wilds to chase the roe.

!"

"See the flowers that smile unto thee,
Wilt thou tend them not, my child?
On the height no gardens woo thee,
Wild is nature on the wild."
"Leave the flowers in peace to blow;
Mother, mother, let me go."

Forth the hunter bounds unheeding,
On his hardy footsteps press;
Hot and eager, blindly speeding
To the mountain's last recess :
Swift, before him, as the wind,
Panting, trembling, flies the hind.

Up the ribbed crag tops driven,
Up she clambers, steep on steep:
O'er the rocks asunder riven

Springs her dizzy, daring leap;
Still unwearied, with the bow
Of death, behind her flies the foe.

On the peak that rudely, drearly

Jags the summit, bleak and hoar,
Where the rocks, descending sheerly,
Leave to flight no path before;
There she bolts at last, to find
Chasms beneath-the foe behind.

THE ALPINE HUNTER.

127

To the hard man-dumb, lamenting,
Turns her look of pleading woe;
Turns in vain-the unrelenting

Meets the look, and bends the bow:
Yawn'd the rock; from his abode.

Forth the mountain Genius strode.

And, his godlike hand extending,
From the hunter snatched the prey,
"Wherefore, woe and slaughter sending
To my solitary sway?

Why should my herds before thee fall?

There's room on the earth for all!”

SIR E. BULWER LYTTON. [From the German of Schiller.]

Youthful Days.

I still remember, nor without regret
Of hours that sorrow since has much
endeared,

How oft, my slice of pocket-store consumed,
Still hungering, penniless, and far from
home,

I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,
Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss
The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.
Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite
Disdains not, nor the palate, undepraved
By culinary arts, unsavoury deems.

No SOFA then awaited my return,
Nor SOFA then I needed. Youth repairs
His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil
Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,
As life declines, speed rapidly away,
And not a year but pilfers as he goes

Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep,
A tooth, or auburn lock, and by degrees

Their length and colour from the locks they spare;
The elastic spring of an unwearied foot,

That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,
That play of lungs inhaling, and again
Respiring freely, the fresh air, that makes
Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,
Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired
My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed
Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find
Still soothing, and of power to charm me still.