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O a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks Are worn with torrents of dissolving snow; A wretched woman, pale and breathless, flies, And, gazing round her, listens to the sound Of hostile footsteps:—No! they die away— Nor noise remains, but of the cataract, Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks A temporary shelter—Clasping close To her quick throbbing heart her sleeping child,