XXXII.
The sun roll'd on. Lo! hills uprose
As push'd against the arching skies,—
As if to meet the timid sun—
Rose sharp from out the sultry dun,
Set well with wood, and brier, and rose,
And seem'd to hold the free repose
Of lands where rocky summits rise,
Or unfenced fields of Paradise.
The black men look'd up from the sands