ALPINE FLOWERS. 93 



Man, who panting toils 

 O er slippery steeps ; or, trembling, treads the 



verge 

 Of yawning gulfs, from which the headlong 



plunge 



Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 

 And marks ye in your placid loveliness, 

 Fearless, yet frail ; and, clasping his chill 



hands, 



Blesses your pencil d beauty. Mid the pomp 

 Of mountain-summits, towering to the skies, 

 And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 

 He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 

 Inhales your fragrance on the frost-wing d 



gale, 

 And freer dreams of Heaven. 



