I.

’Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn’s wild horn,[228] Like a wind’s voice, had pour’d its last long tone, Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne, To the low cabins of the glens made known That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone By cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest; The chamois slumber’d, for the chase was done; His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press’d, And the rock-eagle couch’d high on his cloudy nest.