III.

Beside the jutting rock the few appeared, Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd; 60 Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, But still the hunter's blood was on their horn. A little stream came tumbling from the height, And straggling into ocean as it might, Its bounding crystal frolicked in the ray, And gushed from cliff to crag with saltless spray; Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure And fresh as Innocence, and more secure, Its silver torrent glittered o'er the deep, As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 70 While far below the vast and sullen swell Of Ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. To this young spring they rushed,--all feelings first Absorbed in Passion's and in Nature's thirst,-- Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw Their arms aside to revel in its dew; Cooled their scorched throats, and washed the gory stains From wounds whose only bandage might be chains; Then, when their drought was quenched, looked sadly round, As wondering how so many still were found 80 Alive and fetterless:--but silent all, Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call On him for language which his lips denied, As though their voices with their cause had died.