And ploughed, as with a swelling sail,
The billowy clouds and starry sea:
Then while thy hermit nightingale
Sang on his fragrant apple-tree,—
Romantic, solitary, free,
The visitant of Eldurn’s shore,
On such a moonlight mountain strayed
As echoed to the music made
By Druid harps of yore.
Around thy savage hills of oak,