LXXV.
And, further down, the Narraganset flood,
Unfurrowed yet by keel—its fretted blue
With isles begemmed, and skirted by the wood
Of far Coweset,—opens on his view;
So long he had beneath the forest trod,
That, when the prospect on his vision grew,
His soul as from a prison seemed to fly
And range in thought through an immensity.
LXXVI.