Peasant
of
the
Alps.
From
the
Novel
of
Celestina
.
WHERE
cliffs
arise
by
Winter
crown'd
,
And
through
dark
groves
of
pine
around
,
Down
the
deep
chasms
,
the
snowfed
torrents
foam
,
Within
some
hollow
,
shelter'd
from
the
storms
,
The
PEASANT
of
the
ALPS
his
cottage
forms
,
And
builds
his
humble
,
happy
home
.
Unenvied
is
the
rich
domain
,
That
far
beneath
him
on
the
plain
,
Waves
its
wide
harvests
and
its
olive
groves
;
More
dear
to
him
his
hut
,
with
plantain
thatch'd
,
Where
long
his
unambitious
heart
attach'd
,
Finds
all
he
wishes
,
all
he
loves
.
There
dwells
the
mistress
of
his
heart
,
And
Love
who
teaches
ev'ry
art
,
Has
bid
him
dress
the
spot
with
fondest
care
;
When
borrowing
from
the
vale
its
fertile
soil
,
He
climbs
the
precipice
with
patient
toil
,
To
plant
her
fav'rite
flow'rets
there
.
With
native
shrubs
,
a
hardy
race
,
There
the
green
myrtle
finds
a
place
,
And
roses
there
,
the
dewy
leaves
decline
;
While
from
the
crags'
abrupt
and
tangled
steeps
,
With
bloom
and
fruit
the
Alpine
berry
peeps
,
And
,
blushing
,
mingles
with
the
vine
.
His
garden's
simple
produce
stor'd
,
Prepar'd
for
him
by
hands
ador'd
,
Is
all
the
little
luxury
he
knows
:
And
by
the
same
dear
hands
are
softly
spread
,
The
Chamois'
velvet
spoil
that
forms
the
bed
,
Where
in
her
arms
he
finds
repose
.
But
absent
from
the
calm
abode
,
Dark
thunder
gathers
round
his
road
,
Wild
raves
the
wind
,
the
arrowy
light'nings
flash
,
Returning
quick
the
murmuring
rocks
among
,
His
faint
heart
trembling
as
he
winds
along
;
Alarm'd
!
—
he
listens
to
the
crash
Of
rifted
ice
!
—
Oh
,
man
of
woe
!
O'er
his
dear
cot
—
a
mass
of
snow
,
By
the
storm
sever'd
from
the
cliff
above
,
Has
fall'n
—
and
buried
in
its
marble
breast
,
All
that
for
him
—
lost
wretch
—
the
world
possest
,
His
home
,
his
happiness
,
his
love
!
Aghast
the
heartstruck
mourner
stands
!
Glaz'd
are
his
eyes
—
convuls'd
his
hands
,
O'erwhelming
Anguish
checks
his
labouring
breath
,
Crush'd
by
Despair's
intolerable
weight
,
Frantic
he
seeks
the
mountain's
giddiest
height
,
And
headlong
seeks
relief
in
death
.
A
fate
too
similar
is
mine
,
But
I
—
in
ling'ring
pain
repine
,
And
still
my
lost
felicity
deplore
;
Cold
,
cold
to
me
is
that
dear
breast
become
,
Where
this
poor
heart
had
fondly
fix'd
its
home
,
And
love
and
happiness
are
mine
no
more
.