He turn’d where birds through the gorgeous gloom
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume;
He track’d the brink of the shining lake,
By the tall canes feather’d in tuft and brake;
Till the path he chose, in its mazes, wound
To the very heart of the holy ground.
And there lay the water, as if enshrined
In a rocky urn, from the sun and wind,
Bearing the hues of the grove on high,
Far down through its dark still purity.