Between the forest and the lake’s bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither’d oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.
And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said—
“I listen’d for the words, which, years ago,
Pass’d o’er these waters. Though the voice is fled
Which made them as a singing fountain’s flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest’s murmur gives them back.
“Ask’st thou of him whose house is lone beneath?