The Alpine Hunter.

Wilt thou not the lambkins guard?     Oh, how soft and meek they look,     Feeding on the grassy sward,     Sporting round the silvery brook!     "Mother, mother, let me go     On yon heights to chase the roe!"     Wilt thou not the flock compel     With the horn's inspiring notes?     Sweet the echo of yon bell,     As across the wood it floats!     "Mother, mother, let me go     On yon heights to hunt the roe!"     Wilt thou not the flow'rets bind,     Smiling gently in their bed?     For no garden thou wilt find     On yon heights so wild and dread.     "Leave the flow'rets, let them blow!     Mother, mother, let me go!"     And the youth then sought the chase,     Onward pressed with headlong speed     To the mountain's gloomiest place,     Naught his progress could impede;     And before him, like the wind,     Swiftly flies the trembling hind!     Up the naked precipice     Clambers she, with footsteps light,     O'er the chasm's dark abyss     Leaps with spring of daring might;     But behind, unweariedly,     With his death-bow follows he.     Now upon the rugged top     Stands she, on the loftiest height,     Where the cliffs abruptly stop,     And the path is lost to sight.     There she views the steeps below,     Close behind, her mortal foe.     She, with silent, woeful gaze,     Seeks the cruel boy to move;     But, alas! in vain she prays     To the string he fits the groove.     When from out the clefts, behold!     Steps the Mountain Genius old.     With his hand the Deity     Shields the beast that trembling sighs;     "Must thou, even up to me,     Death and anguish send?" he cries,     Earth has room for all to dwell,     "Why pursue my loved gazelle?"