That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull 270
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.
I.
My hair is gray, but not with years,