Down their bright steeps, emerging into day,
Impetuous fountains burst their headlong way,
O’er milk-white vales in ivory channels spread,
And wondering seek their subterraneous bed.
Form’d in pellucid salt, with chisel nice,
The pale lamp glittering through the sculptur’d ice,
With wild reverted eyes fair Lotta stands,
And spreads to heaven, in vain, her glassy hands;
Cold dews condense upon her pearly breast,
And the big tear rolls lucid down her vest.