Though burning anguish drank his blood!
The angry Mastiff snarl’d, as he
Turn’d from the house of luxury;
The sultry hour was long, and high
The broad sun flamed athwart the sky—
But still a throbbing hope possess’d
The Indian wand’rer’s fev’rish breast,
When from the distant dell a sound
Of swelling music echo’d round.
XIII.