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But his dreams were fill'd by a haunting tone, Sad as a sleeping infant's moan; And his soul was pierc'd by a mournful eye, Which look'd on it—oh! how beseechingly! And there floated past him a fragile form, With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm; Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove In vain with its burden of helpless love! —Thus woke the dreamer one weary night— There flash'd through his dungeon a swift strong light; He sprang up—he climb'd to the grating-bars, —It was not the rising of moon or stars, But a signal flame from a peak of snow, Rock'd through the dark skies, to and fro! There shot forth another—another still— A hundred answers of hill to hill! Tossing like pines in the tempest's way, Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play, And each is hail'd with a pealing shout, For the high Alps waving their banners out!