And, floating swan-like, stately, and serene,
A few light fleecy clouds, the drapery of heav'n,
Throw their pale shadows o'er this witching scene,
Deep'ning its mystic grandeur—and seem driven
Round these all shapeless piles like Time's wan spectres risen
From out the tombs of ages. All around
Lies hushed and still, save with large, dusky wing
The bird of night makes its ill-omened sound;
Or moor-game, nestling 'neath th' flowery ling
Low chuckle to their mates—or startled, spring