LXVII.
Then looking north, from far could he behold,
Bright bursting from his source through forests dun,
Like liquid silver, broad Cohannet rolled
Tow’rd parent ocean;—there his currents run
Embrowned by fringing woods;—here molten gold,
Gleaming and glittering in the setting sun,
They glance by Haup—there, eastward as they pour,
They cleave Aquidnay from Pocasset’s shore.
LXVIII.