It seem’d at first a dulcet sound—
Like mingled waters, wand’ring round
Slow falling from a fountain.
And now, in wilder tone it rose,
The white peaks sweeping, shrilly:
It play’d amidst her golden hair
It kiss’d her bosom cold and fair—
And sweet, as vale-born Lily!
She heard the hollow tread of feet
Thridding the piny cluster;