I.
’Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn’s wild horn,[228]
Like a wind’s voice, had pour’d its last long tone,
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne,
To the low cabins of the glens made known
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone
By cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest;
The chamois slumber’d, for the chase was done;
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press’d,
And the rock-eagle couch’d high on his cloudy nest.