V. MARGARET DE TOURS. Now the grey granite, starting thro' the snow, Discovered many a variegated moss k That to the pilgrim resting on his staff Shadows out capes and islands; and ere long Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live In lower regions, and delighted drink The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues. With their diminutive leaves covered the ground. 'Twas then, that turning by an ancient larch Shivered in two yet most majestical With its long level branches, we observed A human figure sitting on a stone Far down by the way-side-just where the rock Is riven asunder, and the Evil One Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument1 Built in one night, from which the flood beneath, Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard, And seen as motionless! Nearer we drew, And 'twas a woman young and delicate, Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot, Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand, In deepest thought. Young as she was, she wore The matron-cap; and from her shape we judged, As well we might, that it would not be long Ere she became a mother. Pale she looked, Worn on one side, and garnished with a ribbon On our approach, she journeyed slowly on; And my companion, long before we met, Knew, and ran down to greet her. C 3 She was born (Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears) In Val d'Aosta; and an Alpine stream, Leaping from crag to crag in its short course To join the Dora, turned her father's mill. There did she blossom till a Valaisan, A townsman of Martigny, won her heart, Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out, Unwilling to resign her; and at length, When the third summer came, they stole a match And fled. The act was sudden; and when far Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then She pictured to herself that aged face Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger; And, when at last she heard his hour was near, |