So high, that, on its top, the winter snow Was never melted, and the cottagers Among the summer blossoms, far below, Saw its white peaks in August from their door. One little maiden, in that cottage-home, Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb, Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there, Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean-waves, Alice. And should be wiser. Eva was the name Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, And moulding little snow-balls in their palms, And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, Down the steep snow-fields. Alice. 88 That, too, must have been A merry sight to look at. And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. Now, stay not long abroad,' said the good dame, For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, They stood, and gazed at her who never more Should look on them. 'Why die we not with her?' They said; Without her, life is bitterness.' Now came the funeral-day; the simple folk Of all that pastoral region gathered round Lay her away to rest within the ground. Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life Was spotless as these snows; for she was reared In love, and passed in love life's pleasant spring, And all that now our tenderest love can do Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs.' They paused. A thousand slender voices round, 309 |