Where ceaseless fusillades would seem
To warn approaching foes.
'The night is older. On the sward
Stretched, I behold the heavens broad
When, a Shape rises dim;
Then clearer, fuller, I descry
By the swart brow, the star-bright eye,
The gnome king's presence grim.
'He stands upon a time-worn block;
His dark form shrouds the snowy rock,