THE NORWEGIAN HUNTER. WHERE no warm breeze e'er bade to flow But oft from some projecting steep The' impetuous winds long-sapping sweep A waste of snow.....With thundering bound Down rushes fast the gathering mound, O'er crags, o'er pines it drives amain The Hunter only 'scapes....his way His wife's caresses; and beguiles With soothing thoughts his dreary way. Already he prepares to tell To those with whom his rapt thoughts dwell; The cot that all his treasure holds, And thinks he sees his children raise From the elk's lofty forehead torn. .........................................Ah wretch! no more thy eyes shall see Thy much loved cot....No more for thee At eve the cheerful fire shall burn To welcome thee at thy return.... And voices as of those so dear Shall shriek upon thy startled ear. |