And columns wreathed in feathery snow,
How childhood dreams of glory show.
Fast by these piles, on reeking steed,
A post-boy checked his furious speed,
And whispered to a gaping wight,
"Fitch Moreland takes a wife to-night."
Mute Alice Hill the echo caught,—
With stealthy steps the town she sought,
That three leagues off in beauty lay
Along Wamphassock's lovely bay—