Fled westward; and the morning lay asleep
Upon the valley fallen wondrous still.
Hugh kept his nook, nor ventured forth, until
The high day toppled to the blue descent,
When thirst became a master, and he went
With painful scrambling down the broken scarp,
Lured by the stream, that like a smitten harp
Rippled a muted music to the sun.
Scarce had he crossed the open flat, and won
The half-way fringe of willows, when he saw,