Smiting the branches in their fitful play,
And brightly shivering where the torrents dash’d
Up, even to crag and eagle’s nest, their spray!
And there to stand amidst the pealing strife,
The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life,
And all the mountain-voices on their way,—
Was it not joy? ’Twas joy in rushing might,
After those years that wove but one long dead of night!
XXII.
There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon,