’Mid those the stranger fix’d his eye
Where that huge falchion hung on high,
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,
Rush’d, chasing countless thoughts along,
Until, the giddy whirl to cure,
He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.
XXXV.
The wild rose, eglantine, and broom
Wasted around their rich perfume:
The birch trees wept in fragrant balm,