With banners rich were mounted;
His heart beat high against his side
While Golfre, waiting for his bride,
The weary minutes counted.
The snow fell fast, with mingling hail,
The dawn was late, and louring;
Poor Zorietto rose aghast!
Unmindful of the Northern blast
And prowling Wolves, devouring.
Swift to the wood of Pines she flew,