Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen
In any mirror—or the spring’s young minions,
The winged leaves amid the copses green;—
How many a spirit then puts on the pinions _255
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast,
And his own steps—and over wide dominions
Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,
More fleet than storms—the wide world shrinks below,
When winter and despondency are past. _260
FRAGMENT 5.
’Twas at this season that Prince Athanase
Passed the white Alps—those eagle-baffling mountains
Slept in their shrouds of snow;—beside the ways
The waterfalls were voiceless—for their fountains
Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now, _265
Or by the curdling winds—like brazen wings
Which clanged along the mountain’s marble brow—
Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung
And filled with frozen light the chasms below.
Vexed by the blast, the great pines groaned and swung _270
Under their load of [snow]—
…
…
Such as the eagle sees, when he dives down
From the gray deserts of wide air, [beheld] _275
[Prince] Athanase; and o’er his mien (?) was thrown
The shadow of that scene, field after field,
Purple and dim and wide…