'Twas at this season that Prince Athanase Passed the white Alps-those eagle-baffling mountains Slept in their shrouds of snow;-beside the ways
The waterfalls were voiceless-for their fountains Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now, Or by the curdling winds-like brazen wings
Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow- Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung And filled with frozen light the chasms below.
Vexed by the blast, the great pines groaned and swung Under their load of [snow]- ... ... Such as the eagle sees, when he dives down From the gray deserts of wide air, [beheld] [Prince] Athanase; and o'er his mien (?) was thrown
The shadow of that scene, field after field, Purple and dim and wide...