To Mrs. Macmarland

IN Schnee der Alpen - so it runs

To those divine accords - and here

We dwell in Alpine snows and suns,

A motley crew, for half the year:

A motley crew, we dwell to taste -

A shivering band in hope and fear -

That sun upon the snowy waste,

That Alpine ether cold and clear.

Up from the laboured