Glad to hear his sullen voice
Booming o’er the crested waves,
Sounding through old grots and caves—
Sighing ’mid the forest trees,
Not in songs of summer’s breeze,
But like mournings for the dead,
That as fairy flowers have fled;
Mounting o’er the mountain’s brow,
Where the oak-tree’s trembling bough,
Rushing through the wooded glen,