"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche !" This was the peasant's last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air A traveller, by the faithful hound, Still grasping in his hand of ice. That banner with the strange device There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, |