Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone.
Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air—
Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine;
She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare,
And warm thy veins with generous wine!
Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power,
On the wild slopes of craggy hills;
Thou shalt bore thy breast to the arrowy shower,
And catch in thine arms the icy rills:
Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same,