Rodolpho and Matilda

In a lone vale wash'd by the impetuous Arve, Beneath a shade its tallest mountain threw, Matilda dwelt, the sole remaining hope Of old Alberto, whose paternal farm, Cover'd with flocks and herds spread wide around, Her's was each blushing charm which youth may boast, When nature grows profuse; her's too each power, Attended with each studious wish to please, Fair as the bloom of May, and mildly sweet As the soft gales that with their vernal wings Fan the first op'ning flowers.—Each neigbhouring swain Had sigh'd and languish'd; on the tender bark, Inscrib'd the fair one's name, or to her ear Whisper'd his love.—In vain!—None, none were heard; Save young Rodolpho, whose prevailing form Had won her to his favour; on his brow Sat native comeliness, and manly fire O'er all diffus'd its lustre. Yet with her His gen'rous mind most sway'd, where shone each thought That delicacy knows, far more refin'd Than suits the happy!—Much he had convers'd With reverend age, and learn'd from thence to prize A rural life, learn'd to prefer the peace Of his own woods, to the discordant din Of populous cities.—What but fate could bar Their wishes?—What indeed!—The morn was fix'd To seal their plighted faith, the bridegroom rose With all a bridegroom's transport, call'd his friends To join the jocund train, and hasten forth To greet the expecting maid; still as he went Anticipating Fancy's magic hand, The thousand raptures drew, which youthful breasts Feel at approaching bliss.—Alas! how quick Treads woe on pleasure's footsteps:—Now pursue The fated youth, tho' words are sure too weak To speak his horror, when nor well known farm, Nor wonted flocks he saw, but in their place A pond'rous mound of snow.—At early dawn From the near Alp the cumb'rous ruin fell, And crush'd Alberto's roof.—To lend their aid The assembled villagers were met, and now From out the mass had brought once more to light Th' ill-starr'd Matilda; lovely still!—For still A blush was on her cheek, and her clos'd eye Shew'd but as sleep. Around her head she wore Her bridal ornaments deck'd as she was To wait the nuptial hour.—Ah! deck'd in vain, The grave thy marriage bed!—On the sad scene Rodolpho gazes, stands a while aghast, The semblance of despair; his swelling breast, Torn by conflicting passions, from his tongue Utterance withholds. He rolls his haggard eyes On all around, as he would ask, if e'er Griefs such as his were known; then o'er the dead A moment pausing, on her lips imprints A thousand frantic kisses, her cold hand With ardour seizes, and in broken sounds, Calls on Matilda's name.—With that last word The struggling soul a passage, and down He sinks in death, pale as the ambient snow.