O’er burning plains and wastes of snow?
What bade her fev’rish bosom sigh,
And dimm’d her large and hazle eye?
What taught her o’er the hills to stray
Fearless by night, and wild by day?
What stole the hour of slumber sweet—
From the scorch’d brain of Marguerite.
Soon shalt thou know; for see how lorn
She climbs the steep of shaggy thorn—
Now on the jutting cliff she stands,