To the rude tempest a firm barricade.
XLVI.
And now his hatchet, with resounding stroke,
Hewed down the boscage that around him rose,
And of dry pine the brittle branches broke,
To yield him fuel for the night’s repose:
The gathered heap an ample store bespoke;
He smites the steel—the tinder brightly glows;
Fired by the match forth burst the kindling flame,
And light upon night’s seated darkness came.