The Hunter Of The Alps Poem by Charlotte Dacre

SEE where on Alpine heights the hunter keen
Follows the feather-footed chamois's flight,
Now on the brink of fearful abyss seen,
Now proudly gazing from the slippery height.

His fell pursuer, man, with anxious eye,
Follows resolv'd--his pointed spike in hand;
His haggard air seems with the scene to vie,
Nobly forlorn, and desolately grand.

Unceasing from the earliest streak of dawn,
O'er sheets of ice and dazzling snow he hies;
Now on the dizzy steep by magic borne,
Now o'er the precipice like light'ning flies.

And oft, if night her sable plumes should spread
O'er toil unpaid--no lassitude he knows;
A fragment of the rock supports his head,
And deaf'ning torrents lull him to repose.

Too happy if at length his prize he gain,
The fleet chamois--whose wild, disdainful eye,
Whose graceful form, whose slender feet are vain--
The hunter's glory is to bid him die!

These are the strange delights of savage life!
Yet tender ties the mountain warrior knows,
A cottage, children, and a gentle wife!
For whom, while braving death, his bosom glows.

Yet such a life hath charms--its enterprise,
Its constant animation, and its care,
Gives birth to energy--bids hope arise,
And saves the soul from torpor and despair.