Low tapping at the bolted door;
And thus, to gain their willing ear,
A feeble voice was heard implore:—
“Cold blows the blast across the moor,
The sleet drives hissing in the wind;
Yon toilsome mountain lies before,
A dreary, treeless waste behind.
“My eyes are weak and dim with age,
No road, no path can I descry;
And these poor rags ill stand the rage