Classic Poem

The Glacier-nymph, with love so soft,
For the young hunter burned,
And from her icy palace oft
Fond looks upon him turned.
But rough the chamois-hunter's heart
As is the world he walks;
Her winnings — warnings — could not start
The hero of the rocks.

Ofttimes her blooming head she 'ld bow,
A tender Alpine rose,
Then as a zephyr fan his brow,
And lull him to repose;
Oft as a misty ghost she 'ld frown
From Schreckborn-peaks on him,
Through snow-fields oft come roaring down
With fury wild and grim.

Yet knowing naught of love or dread,
Unmoved, untouched stands he,
Though oft his boding spirit said,
The nymph it, sure, must be.
The chamois-chase is all his joy,
And huntsman's hardihood;
He heeds no net the nymph has set,
In his heroic mood.

Now was her soul a glowing coal,
Fanned by resentment's gust;
" Alive or dead," the crazed one said,
" Have him I will and must!"
Once must she clasp him to her breast,
With love so wild and warm,
And feel around her neck so blest,
The chamois hunter's arm.

Decked out in all her finery now,
Behold the love-crazed maid,
Her graceful form in robe of storm
And avalanche-wreath arrayed!
Around her head the bristling band,
Ice-diamond-clasped, gleams well;
With thunderbolt she arms her hand,
Her foot with dizzying spell.

There stands the lovely hunter-man,
High on the Alpine bridge:
The nymph beheld, and madly ran
Along the giddy ridge.
He sees her come; she sees him run;
From peak to peak he flies;
He stoops — she grasps him — she hath won
Her wild love's precious prize.

Down in the heaven-deep pillow now
She whirls him from above,
And in the cold rock-grave below,
Caresses him with love.
None knows, of all that loved him best,
When — where — he closed his eyes;
But in the snow-bride's arms, at rest,
The hunter-bridegroom lies!