High converse with their Gods.
Where the wild Tamarisk whistles to the sea blast,
The Druid's harp was heard, swept by the breeze
To softest music, or to grander tones
Awaken'd by the awful master's hand.
Those tones shall sound no more! the rushing waves,
Raised from the vast Atlantic, have o'erwhelm'd
The sacred groves. And deep the Druids lie
In the dark mist-clad sea of former time.