Prince Henry. Thou art St. Catherine, and invisible angels Bear thee across these chasms and precipices, Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone!

Elsie. Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was,
Upon angelic shoulders!  Even now
I Seem uplifted by them, light as air! 
What sound is that?

  Prince Henry.  The tumbling avalanches!

  Elsie How awful, yet how beautiful!

Prince Henry.  These are The voices of the mountains!  Thus they ope Their snowy lips, and speak unto each other, In the primeval language, lost to man.

  Elsie.  What land is this that spreads itself beneath us?

  Prince Henry Italy!  Italy!

Elsie Land of the Madonna!  How beautiful it is!  It seems a garden Of Paradise!

Prince Henry.  Nay, of Gethsemane
To thee and me, of passion and of prayer! 
Yet once of Paradise.  Long years ago
I wandered as a youth among its bowers,
And never from my heart has faded quite
Its memory, that, like a summer sunset,
Encircles with a ring of purple light
All the horizon of my youth.

Guide.  O friends!  The days are short, the way before us long; We must not linger, if we think to reach The inn at Belinzona before vespers!

          (They pass on.)

* * * * *

AT THE FOOT OF THE ALPS.

* * * * *

A halt under the trees at noon.

Prince Henry Here let us pause a moment in the trembling
Shadow and sunshine of the roadside trees,
And, our tired horses in a group assembling,
Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze
Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants;
They lag behind us with a slower pace;
We will await them under the green pendants
Of the great willows in this shady place. 
Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches
Sweat with this canter over hill and glade! 
Stand still, and let these overhanging branches
Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade!

Elsie. What a delightful landscape spreads before us, Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there!  And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o’er us, Blossoms of grapevines scent the sunny air.

Prince Henry. Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet!

Elsie. It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly On their long journey, with uncovered feet.

  Pilgrims (chaunting the Hymn of St. Hildebert)
        Me receptet Sion illa,
        Sion David, urbs tranquilla,
        Cujus faber auctor lucis,
        Cujus portae lignum crucis,
        Cujus claves lingua Petri,
        Cujus cives semper laeti,
        Cujus muri lapis vivus,
        Cujus custos Rex festivus!