With hasty currents, lazy creep, beneath Th' incumbent snow. The tall fir's loaded branch Waves like the ostrich plume: the fleecy show'r Whirl'd in its falling, forms unreal hills And faithless levels. Cautious be his steps, Who thro' these regions journeys while they wear Their cold and dreary aspect, lest from above The snowy piles o'erwhelm him: frequent now From parts remote their sullen sound is heard, Striking the startled ear: by eddying winds Or agitating sounds, the loosen'd snow First mov'd, augmenting slides, then nodding o'er The headlong steep, plunges in air, and rolls With one vast length of ruin to the vale-- Aghast beneath it the pale traveller sees The falling promontory-sees-and dies!-
'Midst its sad victims, from the house of death Let me recal one true, one wretched pair It sunk untimely to the tomb. The tale I've heard from shepherds, as they pointed out The spot their story noted, and have dropt For hapless love a sympathising tear.
In a lone vale, wash'd by th' impetuous Arve, Beneath the shade its tallest mountain threw,
Matilda dwelt, the sole remaining hope Of old Alberto, whose paternal farm
Cover'd with flocks and herds spread wide around. Hers was each blushing charm which youth may boast When Nature grows profuse; hers too each pow'r, Attended with each studious wish to please. Fair as the bloom of May, and mildly sweet As the soft gales that with their vernal wings Fan the first op'ning flow'rs. Each neighbouring swain Had sigh'd and languish'd, on the tender bark Inscrib'd the fair one's name, or to her ear Whisper'd his love, -in vain!-None, none were heard, Save young Rodolpho, whose prevailing form Had won her to his favour: on his brow
Sat native comeliness, and manly fire
O'er all diffus'd its lustre. Yet with her
His gen'rous mind most sway'd, where shone each
That delicacy knows, far more refin'd
Than suits the happy! Much he had convers'd
With rev'rend age, and learn'd from thence to prize
A rural life, learn'd to prefer the peace
Of his own woods, to the discordant din
Of populous cities. What but fate could bar Their wishes? What indeed! The morn was fix'd To seal their plighted faith, the bridegroom rose
With all a bridegroom's transport, call'd his friends To join the jocund train, and hasten forth
To greet th' expecting maid: still as he went
Anticipating Fancy's magic hand,
The thousand raptures drew which youthful breasts Feel at approaching bliss. Alas! how quick Treads wo in pleasure's footsteps! Now pursue The fated youth, tho' words are sure too weak To speak his horror, when nor well-known farm, Nor wonted flocks he saw, but in their place A pond'rous mound of snow. At early dawn From the near Alp the cumb'rous ruin fell, And crush'd Alberto's roof. To lend their aid Th' assembled villagers were met, and now From out the mass had brought once more to light Th' ill-starr'd Matilda! lovely still! for still A blush was on her cheek, and her clos'd eye Shew'd but as sleep. Around her head she wore Her bridal ornaments, deck'd as she was To wait the nuptial. Ah! deck'd in vain! The grave thy marriage bed! On the sad scene Rodolpho gazes, stands awhile aghast, The semblance of despair; his swelling breast, Torn by conflicting passions, from his tongue Utt'rance withholds. He rolls his haggard eyes On all around, as he would ask if e'er
Grief such as his were known; then o'er the dead A moment pausing, on her lips imprints A thousand frantic kisses, her cold hand With ardour seizes, and in broken sounds Calls on Matilda's name. With that last word The struggling soul a passage finds, and down He sinks in death pale as the ambient snow.
Or all the Scotish northern chiefs Of high and mighty name, The bravest was Sir James the Ross, A knight of meikle fame.
His growth was like a youthful oak, That crowns the mountain's brow; And, waving o'er his shoulders broad His locks of yellow flew.
Wide were his fields; his herds were large; And large his flocks of sheep;
And numerous were his goats and deer Upon the mountain steep.
The chieftain of the good clan Ross, A firm and warlike band:
Five hundred warriors drew the sword Beneath his high command.
In bloody fight thrice had he stood Against the English keen, Ere two-and-twenty opening springs The blooming youth had seen.
The fair Matilda dear he lov'd,
A maid of beauty rare; Ev'n Margaret on the Scotish throne Was never half so fair.
Long had he woo'd; long she refus'd With seeming scorn and pride; Yet oft her eyes confessed the love Her fearful words denied.
'At length she bless'd his well-tried love, Allow'd his tender claim:
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