LXXIII.
And hark! another murmur on the air,
Not of the hidden rills or quivering shades!—
That is the cataract’s, which the breezes bear,
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades
With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bed
Of the blue, mournful seas, that keep the dead:
But they are far! The low sun here pervades
Dim forest arches, bathing with red gold
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold,—