Scanning his destined prey, and through the broom,
Thrice stealing on his ears, the whining cry
Swelled by degrees above the tempest high.
XLIV.
Wayworn he stood—and fast that stormy night
Was gathering round him over hill and dale;
He looked around and by the lingering light,
Found he had paused within a narrow vale;
On either hand a snow-clad rocky height
Ascended high, a shelter from the gale,