But now no more I wander, now unchanging here I stay;
By my love, you find me safely sitting here:
And pipe you ne'er so sweetly, till you pipe the hills away,
You can never pipe my fancy from my dear.
TO MRS. MACMARLAND
In Schnee der Alpen—so it runs
To those divine accords—and here
We dwell in Alpine snows and suns,
A motley crew, for half the year:
A motley crew, we dwell to taste—
A shivering band in hope and fear—
That sun upon the snowy waste,
That Alpine ether cold and clear.
Up from the laboured plains, and up
From low sea-levels, we arise
To drink of that diviner cup
The rarer air, the clearer skies;
For, as the great, old, godly King
From mankind's turbid valley cries,
So all we mountain-lovers sing:
I to the hills will lift mine eyes.
