“O, how slowly pass here,” sigh’d it, “In the desert waste the hours! “O these hours that seem quite endless, “Like eternities hard frozen! “Hapless snow! O had I only, “‘Stead of on these mountain summits, “Fallen into yonder valley, “Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming, “Then should I have softly melted, “And become a brook, whilst fairest “Village maidens in my waters “Would have washed their smiling faces. “Yes, perchance I should have floated “To the ocean, there becoming “Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d “To adorn a monarch’s crown!” When I heard this pretty language, Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful “Whether such a brilliant future “Would have met thee in the valley. “Comfort take! But few amongst you “Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen “Probably in some small puddle, “And become a piece of dirt!” Whilst I in this friendly fashion With the snow held conversation, Came a shot, and from above me Fell to earth a tawny vulture. ’Twas a joke of friend Lascaro, Sportsman’s joke; and yet his features Still continued fix’d and solemn, His gun-barrel only smoking. He in silence tore a feather From the bird’s tail, and then stuck it On the top of his peak’d felt-hat, And then hasten’d on as usual. Wellnigh ghostly ’twas to see him, As his shadow with the feather On the white snow of the mountain, Black and long, was onward moving. CAPUT XVII. Like a street there runs a valley, Known by name of Spirit-Hollow; Rugged cliffs on either side of’t Rise to giddy elevation. On the widest, steepest slope there, Peers Uraca’s daring cottage Like a watch-tow’r o’er the valley; Thither follow’d I Lascaro. With his mother held he counsel In mysterious signal-language, As to how great Atta Troll Might be best allur’d and vanquish’d. For we had explored his traces Carefully, and he no longer Could escape us. Now are number’d, Atta Troll, thy days on earth! As to whether old Uraca Was in truth a mighty witch Of distinction, as the people In the Pyrenees asserted, I’ll not venture to determine; This much know I, her exterior Was suspicious, and suspicious Was her red eyes’ constant dripping. Evil was her look, and squinting, And the poor cows (’tis reported) Whom she look’d on, in their udders Had the milk dried suddenly. It is even said that many Fatted swine and strongest oxen She had put to death, by merely Stroking with her wither’d hands. She at times for such offences Was exposed to accusations To the justice. But the latter Was a follower of Voltaire, Just a modern, shallow worldling, Void of faith and penetration, And the’ accusers sceptically Were dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.