From the dreary gloom of their long arcades,
Gave warning, with voice and sign.
But the wind strange magic knows,
To call wild shape and tone
From the gray wood’s tossing boughs,
When Night is on her throne.
The pines closed o’er him with deeper gloom,
As he took the path to the monarch’s tomb:
The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright
With the arrowy streams of the Northern light;