The covert’s heart with swift and stealthy tread:
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rain’d
Their autumn foliage rustling on my head;
A moan—a hollow gust—and there I stood
Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood,
And foaming water.—Thither might have fled
The mountain Christian with his faith of yore,
When Afric’s tambour shook the ringing western shore!
XX.
But through the black ravine the storm came swelling: