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Wherewith her monster's raging thirst to slake;Then leaves me to myself, and flies at last,And I, unbound, yet prison'd fastBy magic, follow in her train,Seek for her, tremble, fly again.The hapless creature thus tormenteth she,

With thy glimmering torchLightest thou himThrough the fords when 'tis night,Over bottomless placesOn desert-like plains;With the thousand colours of morningGladd'nest his bosom;With the fierce-biting stormBearest him proudly on high;Winter torrents rush from the cliffs,--Blend with his psalms;An altar of grateful delightHe finds in the much-dreaded mountain'sSnow-begirded summit,Which foreboding nationsCrown'd with spirit-dances.

Christ is arisen!