And the last note of that wild horn swells by
Which haunts the exile’s heart with melody.
And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home,
Touch’d with the crimson of the dying hour,
Which lit its low roof by the torrent’s foam,
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung bower;
But one, the loveliest o’er the land that rose,
Then first look’d mournful in its green repose.
For Werner sat beneath the linden tree
That sent its lulling whispers through his door,