Group'd their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath, Grey birch and aspen wept beneath; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock; And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream. XIII. Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim, As served the wild-duck's brood to swim ; Lost for a space, through thickets veering, But broader when again appearing, Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; An islet in an inland sea. XIV. And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, B Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, Floated amid the livelier light; And mountains, that like giants stand, To centinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down on the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feather'd o'er His ruin'd sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. XV. From the steep promontory gazed The Stranger, raptured and amazed. And, "What a scene were here,” he cried, On yonder meadow, far away, The turrets of a cloister grey. How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves were still and mute! And, when the midnight moon should lave Her forehead in the silver wave, How solemn on the ear would come The holy matin's distant hum, While the deep peal's commanding tone Should wake, in yonder islet lone, A sainted hermit from his cell, To drop a bead with every knell- To friendly feast, and lighted hall. 66 XVI. Blythe were it then to wander here! But now,-beshrew yon nimble deer,Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare; Some mossy bank my couch must be, Some rustling oak my canopy. Yet pass we that ;-the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place ;A summer night, in green-wood spent, Were but to-morrow's merriment ; But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better miss'd than found; 4 |