With its long level branches, we observed

A human figure sitting on a stone

Far down by the way-side—just where the rock

Is riven asunder, and the Evil One

Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument

Built in one night, from which the flood beneath,

Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard,

And seen as motionless!

Nearer we drew,

And 'twas a woman young and delicate,

Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot,
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand,
In deepest thought. Young as she was, she wore
The matron-cap; and from her shape we judged,
As well we might, that it would not be long

Ere she became a mother. Pale she looked,

Yet cheerful; tho', methought, once, if not twice,

She wiped away a tear that would be coming;

And in those moments her small hat of straw, Worn on one side, and garnished with a ribbon Glittering with gold, but ill concealed a face

Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up

On our approach, she journeyed slowly on;
And my companion, long before we met,

Knew, and ran down to greet her.

She was born

(Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears)

In VAL D'AOSTA; and an Alpine stream,
Leaping from crag to crag in its short course
To join the DORA, turned her father's mill.

There did she blossom till a Valaisan,

A townsman of MARTIGNY, won her heart,

Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out,

Unwilling to resign her; and at length,

When the third summer came, they stole a match

And fled. The act was sudden; and when far

Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then

She pictured to herself that aged face

Sickly and wan, in sorrow,

not in anger;

And, when at last she heard his hour was near,

Went forth unseen, and, burdened as she was,

Crossed the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness,

And hold him to her heart before he died.

Her task was done. She had fulfilled her wish,

And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping.

A frame like hers had suffered; but her love

Was strong within her; and right on she went, Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her!

And should I once again, as once I may,

Visit MARTIGNY, I will not forget

Thy hospitable roof, Marguerite De Tours;

Thy sign the golden sun.

Heaven prosper Thee!

VI.

WHO first beholds those everlasting clouds,

Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night, Still where they were, steadfast, immovable; Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west, So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,

As to belong rather to Heaven than Earth

But instantly receives into his soul

A sense, a feeling that he loses not,