‘ Twas at this season that Prince Athanase
Passed the white Alps — those eagle-baffling mountains
Slept in their shrouds of snow;— beside the ways
The waterfalls were voiceless — for their fountains
Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now,
Or by the curdling winds — like brazen wings
Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow —
Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung
And filled with frozen light the chasms below.
Vexed by the blast, the great pines groaned and swung
Under their load of —
Such as the eagle sees, when he dives down
From the gray deserts of wide air,
Athanase; and o'er his mien (? ) was thrown
The shadow of that scene, field after field,
Purple and dim and wide...