See, gliding slow through mist and bush,
The Hermit gains yon rock, and stands
To gaze upon our slumbering bands.
Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost,
That hovers o’er a slaughter’d host?
Or raven on the blasted oak,
That, watching while the deer is broke,[229]
His morsel claims with sullen croak?"
MALISE.
—“Peace! peace! to other than to me,