XIX.
Ay, and I met the storm there! I had gain’d
The covert’s heart with swift and stealthy tread:
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rain’d
Their autumn foliage rustling on my head;
A moan—a hollow gust—and there I stood
Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood,
And foaming water.—Thither might have fled
The mountain Christian with his faith of yore,
When Afric’s tambour shook the ringing western shore!