Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.
“Now, where the swift Rhône cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed;
Itself expired, but leaving them an age