LXXIII.

And hark! another murmur on the air, Not of the hidden rills or quivering shades!-- That is the cataract’s, which the breezes bear, Filling the leafy twilight of the glades With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bed Of the blue, mournful seas, that keep the dead: But _they_ are far! The low sun here pervades Dim forest arches, bathing with red gold Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold,--