But now with other soul I stand alone Sublime upon this far-surveying cone, And watch from [P] pike to pike amid the sky Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly. 'Tis his with fearless step at large to roam 370 Thro' wastes, of Spirits wing'd the solemn home, [Q] Thro' vacant worlds where Nature never gave A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; Thro' worlds where Life and Sound, and Motion sleep, 375 Where Silence still her death-like reign extends, Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends: In the deep snow the mighty ruin drown'd, Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound; --To mark a planet's pomp and steady light 380 In the least star of scarce-appearing night, And neighbouring moon, that coasts the vast profound, Wheel pale and silent her diminish'd round, While far and wide the icy summits blaze Rejoicing in the glory of her rays; 385 The star of noon that glitters small and bright, Shorn of his beams, insufferably white, And flying fleet behind his orb to view Th' interminable sea of sable blue. --Of cloudless suns no more ye frost-built spires 390 Refract in rainbow hues the restless fires! Ye dewy mists the arid rocks o'er-spread Whose slippery face derides his deathful tread! --To wet the peak's impracticable sides He opens of his feet the sanguine tides, 395 Weak and more weak the issuing current eyes Lapp'd by the panting tongue of thirsty skies. [R] --At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The Demon of the snow with angry roar 400 Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Craz'd by the strength of hope at morn he eyes As sent from heav'n the raven of the skies, Then with despair's whole weight his spirits sink, No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, 405 While ere his eyes can close upon the day, The eagle of the Alps o'ershades his prey. --Meanwhile his wife and child with cruel hope All night the door at every moment ope; Haply that child in fearful doubt may gaze, 410 Passing his father's bones in future days, Start at the reliques of that very thigh, On which so oft he prattled when a boy. Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, Thunders thro' echoing pines the headlong Aar? 415 Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive [S] Underwalden's pastoral heights?