212 THE RECLUSE. 



While the kids and lambs she's bringing 

 Up or down the thymy lawn. 



Spring is come, and little Bertha, 



With her chamois at her side, 

 Up the mountain wander'd further 



Than the narrow pathway guide. 

 Every step is paved with flowers : 



Here the bright mezereon glows; 

 Here the tiger-lily towers, 



And the mountain cistus blows ; 

 Here the royal eagle rushes 



From his eyrie overhead ; 

 There the roaring torrent gushes 



Madly o'er its craggy bed. 

 Hark ! from whence that distant bleating, 



Like a whistle clear and shrill ? 

 Gemze' ! Ah, thy heart is beating, 



With a wild and sudden thrill ! 

 Voices of thy brothers, scouring 



Over sparkling fields of ice, 

 Where the snow-white peaks are towering 



O'er the shaggy precipice. 



Bertha smiled to see him listening, 



(Arching neck, and quivering ear, 

 Panting chest, and bright eyes glistening,) 



To that whistle wild and clear. 

 Little knew she that it sever'd 



All that bound him to the glen, 

 That her gentle bands are shiver'd, 



And the tame one wild again! 

 To the next wild bleat that soundeth, 



Makes he answer strong and shrill; 

 Wild as wildest, off he boundeth 



Fleet as fleetest o'er the hill. 

 " Gemze* ! Gemze' ! Komrnt, mein lieber !" 



Echoes faint, from height to height : 



* Coine, my darling ! 



