THE KOMANCE OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



Every night the fawn is laid on 



Moss and ling beside her bed. 

 Blue as mountain periwinkle 



Is the ribbon round his throat. 

 Where a little bell doth tinkle 



With a shrill and silvery note. 

 When the morning light is flushing 



Wetterhorn so cold and pale, 

 Or when evening shades are hushing 



All the voices of the vale, 

 You might hear the maiden singing 



To her happy Gemze" fawn, 

 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 flelds 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 ; 

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