IV The mountaineer, with dagger at his side, V Here looms a precipice: beneath it yawns VI Here ancient Chaos laughs at all the world : VII Here from a topmost barren peak the eye, Straining across the uncertain field to gaze, May catch a moonlit glimpse of waves that die, Far off, on strands in breaker-haunted bays. VIII The spectral bat within the valleys dreams; VIII. MORNING AT THE THRESHING-FLOOR. I HEARD the music of a shepherd's reed, And knew that morn was nigh. The tender kids Came bleating from the fold: the shadows sought A refuge in the caverns, and the sun Peeped over the world's rim, and, smiling, saw The hovels of the farmers. Here to rest We sank. The camp was yet five leagues beyond. Save two starved refugees, who yestermorn Arrived and camped upon the threshing-floor,- The maid was beautiful: the man would die, We rose, and climbed Along the terraces, and past the church And past the ruined cottages, and stood She sprang, alert with fear, To face us. Tenderly and timidly She stretched her hands in supplication, when She knew us friends. And now the sun apace With purple and with rose and amethyst Flooded the sky: circling before him drove The lingering vapours, and bewildering beams Sent down to touch and warm our weary hearts. Around the maiden's lovely form it threw Bewitching halos, till I thought her face On earth, in air, Was ever fairer vision than this girl? I loved her and I worshipped her : my life The gleaming of the sun upon her hair, 'If I adore thee, vanish not, but stay, For, flying, thou wouldst take my life with thee !' Above her sorrow and her fear, as rise The stars in some black night, beamed from her eyes, And with a perfect glory filled her face. O great surprise! in soft mellifluous Greek The maiden answered, while with eager hand She caught her cloak about her, bowed her head, 'Rise, gentle youth,' she murmured: 'kneel to none Save Him who sent thee to protect the poor And helpless !' While the guide stood gaping by, I struggled to my feet, and bade her tell The story of her sadness. This good man, Who on the threshing-floor lay dead,—and grand To lisp her name, deserted in the streets Of quaint Sebenico by coward knaves Who brought her there from Athens in their shipHad fastened on his robe with clinging hands, And begged for bread. The aged man, a priest, Charged with a small church in a little town With him she had abode. He knew the Greek, |