Of the blue, mournful seas, that keep the dead:
But they are far! The low sun here pervades
Dim forest arches, bathing with red gold
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold,—
LXXIV.
Gorgeous, yet full of gloom! In such an hour,
The vesper-melody of dying bells
Wanders through Spain, from each gray convent’s tower
O’er shining rivers pour’d and olive dells,
By every peasant heard, and muleteer,