 | Songs and ballads |  |
85
THE CHAMOIS HUNTERS.
I
Away to the Alps! for the hunters are there,To rouse the chamois, in his rock-vaulted lair.
From valley to mountain, see!—swiftly they go—
As the ball from the rifle—the shaft from the bow.
Nor chasms, nor glaciers, their firmness dismay;
Undaunted they leap, like young leopards at play;
And the dash of the torrent sounds welcome and dear,
As the voice of a friend to the wanderer's ear.
II
They reck not the music of hound or of horn—The neigh of the courser—the gladness of morn.
The blasts of the tempest their dark sinews brace;
And the wilder the danger, the sweeter the chase.
With spirits as strong as their footsteps are light,
On—onward they speed, in the joy of their might:
Till eve gathers round them, and silent and deep—
The bleak snow their pillow—the wild hunters sleep.
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