Away, away! if not, alas, too late.

Homeward he drags an old man and a boy, Faltering and falling, and but half awakened, Asking to sleep again." Such their discourse.

III.

THE DESCENT.

My mule refreshed and, let the truth be told,

He was not of that vile and

scurvy race

In every age lovers of controversy,

But patient, diligent and sure of foot,

Shunning the loose stone on the precipice,

Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch,

Examining the wet and spungy moss,

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And on his haunches sitting to slide down

The steep, the smooth - my mule refreshed, his bells

Gingled once more— the signal to depart,

And we set out in the grey light of dawn,

Descending rapidly — by waterfalls

Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice

That in their long career had stopt mid-way.

At length, unchecked, unbidden, he stood still;

And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide,

The horse and foot that, night and day, defiled

Along this path to conquer at Marengo.

Well I remember how I met them here,

As the light died away, and how Napoleon,
Wrapt in his cloak - I could not be deceived-
Reined in his horse, and asked me, as I passed,
How far 'twas to St. Remi. Where the rock

Juts forwards, and the road, crumbling away,
Narrows almost to nothing at its base,

'Twas there; and down along the brink he led

To Victory! - Desaix, who turned the scale,

Leaving his life-blood in that famous field,

(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot In the blue haze,) sleeps, as thou saw'st at dawn,

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