Would chant the very march their trumpets sung.—
The old soldier hoped, ere evening’s light should fail,
To reach a home, south-east of Cona’s vale;
But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow,
He saw its mists come curling down below,
And spread white darkness o’er the sunset glow;—
Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean’s spray,
Or clouds from troops in battle’s fiery day—
So dense, his quarry ’scaped the falcon’s sight,
The owl alone exulted, hating light.