Classic Poem

The youthful Count of Greiers before his house doth stand:
He views, in morning's glimmer, the distant mountain-land.
He sees the rocky summits i' the sunlight's golden glow,
And, dimly stretched between them, the Alpine vale below.

" O Alps, O Alpine valley — ye lure me like a spell;
How blest the maids, the herdsmen that 'mid your pastures dwell!
I oft have gazed upon you, and felt nor joy nor smart,
But now a quenchless yearning constrains my inmost heart. "

A sound of pipes falls clearer, and clearer on the ear,
The shepherd-lads and maidens the lonely castle near;
Now, on the turf before it, begins the circling dance,
The white sleeves wave and shimmer, the wreaths and ribands glance.

The youngest of the maidens, lithe as a branch in May,
The County's hand she seizes — he too must join their play;
Ere long the dance enfolds him in wild and whirling glee,
And " Ho! young Count of Greiers! our prisoner must thou be! "

Far, far from thence they lead him with dance and roundelay,
They dance thro' many a village that swells the glad array.
They dance across the meadows, beyond the forest's bounds,
Till far up on the mountains the merry shout resounds.

Soon came the second morning, the third is rising bright;
Where stays the Count of Greiers — say, hath he vanished quite?
Again at eve descending, the sultry sun hath gone —
There's thunder on the mountains, a mighty storm comes on.

The cloud hath burst, the streamlet a roaring torrent flows,
A sudden glare of lightning the darkened landscape shews;
Lo! struggling in the torrent, a man floats swiftly past,
Till, grasping at a sapling, he wins the bank at last.

" Lo! here am I, abruptly from your mountain-hollow torn,
A storm that burst above us, me hitherward hath borne.
Ye all in huts and caverns escaped its rushing sway,
Me only hath the tempest swept forcefully away.

Farewell, ye Alpine pastures, ye herdsmen blithe and true,
Farewell, three days of rapture, when shepherd-life I knew;
For such a blissful Eden I ne'er, alas! was born,
Whence heav'n, with sword bright-flaming, hath thrust me forth forlorn.

O Alpine rose so blooming, press never-more my hand!
Tho' e'en the chilly torrent hath quenched not passion's brand;
And ye, enchanting dances, ne'er tempt me hence again!
Receive me home, my castle, where solitude doth reign. "