"Ah, BERTHO! BERTHO!" the young traveller cried,
While rapid tears ran down her grief-touched cheeks:--
"Is there no way save this? My feet refuse
To do the bidding of my heart; no more
This faithful bosom thy delight shall be--
No more thine eyes shall smile into mine own
Till both swim full of bliss--no more thy mouth
Breathe its soft words and kisses on my cheek,
Naming me thine--thine only--thine forever!
Where art thou, BERTHO? BERTHO! Cruel Thug;
Sink thyself in the sea, presumptuous mount,
Till I can pluck my lover from thy breast!"
The echo of her heart did mock her cry;
Long time, she lay, half perished, on the snow,
Till love revived, with its eternal fires,
The warmth of purpose in her chilly breast;
Then, springing to her feet, she shook her curls,
In golden billows from her brows, the while
That a sweet resoluteness on her lip
Settled itself, and triumphed in her eyes:--
"Torrent nor precipice, nor jutting crag--
Night, spirits, ghouls, nor ravenous wild beasts,
Distance, nor time, shall fright me from the way,"
She said, and silently began to climb,
Though avalanches roared from steep to steep
And fear increased with every perilous step.
The Moon alone was kind to the poor child,
Shedding its softest lustre round her feet.
Near half way up the mount she may have passed