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SHEPHERD POET OF THE ALPS.
63
And a pure, Madonna brow,
And a silvery voice, and low,
Like the echo of a flute,
Even the last, ere all be mute.
But a loftier soul was seen
In the orphan sister's mien,
From that hour when chains defiled
Him, the high Alps' noble child.
Tones in her quivering voice awoke,
As if a harp of battle spoke;
Light, that seem'd born of an eagle's nest,
Flash'd from her soft eyes, unrepress'd;
And her form, like a spreading water-flower,
When its frail cup swells with a sudden shower,
Seem'd all dilated with love and pride,
And grief for that brother, her young heart's guide.
Well might they love!—those two had grown
Orphans together and alone:
The silence of the Alpine sky
Had hush'd their hearts to piety;
