Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/335

Rh

The eagle sails in darkness past, The watchful chamois bounds; But what I look for comes not near,— My 's hawk and hounds.

Three times I thus have watched the snow Grow crimson with the stain The setting sun threw o'er the rock, And I have watched in vain.

I love to see the graceful bow Across his shoulder slung,— I love to see the golden horn Beside his baldric hung.