Where through the dim night hours, she pillows her sleep,
I start from my slumbers, and hie me away
Where the white torrent dashes its feathery spray,--
I quaff the fresh stream as it bursts from the hill,--
I pluck the fresh flowers that spring by the rill,--
I watch the gray clouds as they curl round the peak
That rises high over them, barren and bleak;
And I think how the worldling who courts fortune's smile,
In his heart, like that peak, may be lonely the while;
And then my own heart sings aloud in its joy,
That Heaven has made me a free shepherd boy!

II.

When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high,
Where the tall giant ice-cliffs ire piled to the sky,
Where, shunning the verdure of valleys and dells,
The brave eagle builds, and the shy chamois dwells,--
I list to its gay tones, as by me they float,
And I echo them merrily back, note for note;
With the wild bird a song full as gladsome I sing,
I crown me with flowers, and sit a crowned king,--
My flock are my subjects, my dog my vizier,
And my sceptre--a mild one--the crook that I bear;
No wants to perplex me, no cares to annoy,
I live an unenvying, free shepherdhoy!

Werner (meets and addresses him).

Thou'rt merry, lad.