I.

Oft to a creek, in Shakspeare's haunted stream, What time the noon invites of song to dream, Where stately oak with silver poplar weaves The hospitable shade of amorous leaves, And, lightly swerved by winding shores askance, The limpid river wreathes its flying dance,[A] Young Constance came;--a bank with wild flowers drest As for a fairy's sleep, her sylvan rest. Behind, the woodlands, opening, left a glade, With swards all sunshine in the midst of shade; Save where pale lilacs droop'd against the ray Around the cot which meekly shunn'd the day: But stern and high, above the deep repose Of vale and wave, the towers of Ruthven rose; Like souls unshelter'd because high they are, The nearer heaven the more from peace afar; Built by the mighty Architect, to form Bulwarks for man, and battle with the storm; To soar and suffer with defying crest, And guard the humble, not partake their rest.

A lonely spot! at times a passing oar Dash'd the wave quicker to the gradual shore; But swift, as, when some footfall nears her lair, Starts the fond cushat from her tender care, SILENCE came back, with wings that seem'd to brood In watch more loving over solitude.