Herself, his tributary.—If we turn
To those black forests, where, through many an age,
Night without day, no axe the silence broke,
Or seldom, save where Rhine or Danube rolled;
Where o’er the narrow glen a castle hangs,
And, like the wolf that hungered at his door,
The baron lived by rapine—there we meet,
In warlike guise, the caravan from Venice;
When on its march, now lost and now beheld,
A glittering file (the trumpet heard, the scout