Grows on his ear, increasing more and more
As he advances, till the woods resound
And seem to tremble with the constant roar
Of many waters—Ay, the very ground
Beneath him quivers,—and, through arching trees
Bright glimmering and gliding on, he sees
LXVIII.
The river flowing to its dizzy steep
’Twixt fringing forests, from so far as sight
Can track its course, and, rushing, oversweep