e his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. [79]
And who, that walks where men of ancient days
Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, 290
Feels not the spirit of the place control,
Or rouse [80] and agitate his labouring soul?
Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills,
Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills,
On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell, 295
Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell
What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought
Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, [81]
Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh,
And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; 300
Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired,
And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" [S] expired?

But now with other mind I stand alone
Upon the summit of this naked cone,
And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase 305
His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space, [82]
[T] Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave
A brook to murmur or a bough to wave,
Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep;
Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion sleep; 310
Where silent Hours their death-like sway extend,
Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend
Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned
In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound,
Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. [83] 315
--'Tis his, while wandering on from height to height,
To see a planet's pomp and steady light
In the least star of scarce-appearing night;
While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound
Of ether, shining with diminished round, [84] 320
And far and wide the icy summits blaze,
Rejoicing in the glory of her rays:
To him the day-star glitters small and bright,
Shorn of its beams, insufferably white,
And he can look beyond the sun, and view 325
Those fast-receding depths of sable blue
Flying till vision can no more pursue! [85]
--At once bewildering mists around him close,
And cold and hunger are his least of woes;
The Demon of the snow, with angry roar 330
Descending, shuts for aye his prison door.
Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink;
Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink;
And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, [86]
The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey.