Beside, upon the couch of fern,
The tired ox lay down in turn;
The poster’s bells chimed thro’ the night,
The mountain wind sang through the cranny,
And yet of all who rose with light,
The promptest was my joyous Fanny.
The plains of Piedmont we passed o’er,
The swollen river’s ravaged shore;
And Savoy’s sentinel was nigh,
With his white forehead in the sky.