Shutting the heavens out, till glimmering day
Could scarce the long, dark, winding path display.
X.
Deep silence reigned o’er all the sable tide,
Broke only by the swarthy pilot’s oar;
Under the arching boughs the wanderers glide,
And the dark ripplings curl from shore to shore;
The startled wood-ducks ’neath the waters hide,
Or on fleet pinions through the branches soar;
Whilst overhead the rattling boughs, at times,