For the pomp of the forest, the wave’s bright fall,
The red gold of sunset—she loved them all.
II.
The moon rose clear in the splendour given
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven;
The boy from the high-arch’d woods came back—
Oh! what had he met in his lonely track?
The serpent’s glance, through the long reeds bright?
The arrowy spring of the tiger’s might?
No! yet as one by a conflict worn,