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SHEPHERD POET OF THE ALPS.
65
She hath wander'd through many a hamlet-vale,
Telling its children her brother's tale;
And the strains, by his spirit pour'd away,
Freely as fountains might shower their spray,
From her fervent lip a new life have caught,
And a power to kindle yet bolder thought;
While sometimes a melody, all her own,
Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone,
May be heard 'midst the lonely rocks to flow,
Clear through the water-chimes—clear, yet low.
"Thou'rt not where wild flowers wave
O'er crag and sparry cave;
Thou'rt not where pines are sounding,
Or joyous torrents bounding—
Alas, my brother!
"Thou'rt not where green, on high,
The brighter pastures lie;
