By Isabel supported. Mountains heave
Their giant forms to Heaven, Pyrene’s shade
Thrown to the Frenchward side. His bulwarks made
A fence the westering sunbeam to reflect,
And balmy gales from many an opening glade
Came soft the old man’s forehead to protect
From fiercer rays, while moved his form no more erect.
IV.
And, as on Isabel’s sustaining arm
He passed ’neath trellised vine that dropt its load