XIX.

Ay, and I met the storm there! I had gain’d The covert’s heart with swift and stealthy tread: A moan went past me, and the dark trees rain’d Their autumn foliage rustling on my head; A moan--a hollow gust--and there I stood Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood, And foaming water.--Thither might have fled The mountain Christian with his faith of yore, When Afric’s tambour shook the ringing western shore!