C.

And the hour comes, in storm! A light is glancing Far through the forest god’s Arcadian shades! --’Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades. A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, Round dark Cithæron and by Delphi’s steep; --’Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep, Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep!