VIII.

O’er their low pastoral valleys might the tide Of years have flow’d, and still, from sire to son, Their names and records on the green earth died, As cottage lamps, expiring one by one In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun To hush all sound. But silent on its height, The snow mass, full of death, while ages run Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light, Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.