VII.

Across his threshold Ruthven lightly strode, And his glad heart from its full deeps o'erflow'd, Pass'd is the Porch--he gains the balmy air, Still crouch the night winds in their forest lair. The moonlight silvers the unrustling pines, On the hush'd lake the tremulous glory shines. A stately shadow o'er the crystal brink, Reflects the shy stag as its halt to drink; And the slow cygnet, where it midway glides, Breaks into sparkling rings the faintly heaving tides. Wandering along his boyhood's haunts, he mused; The hour, the heaven, the bliss his soul suffused; It seem'd all hatred from the world had flown, And left to Nature, Love and God alone! Ev'n holiest passion holier render'd there, His every thought breathed gentle as a prayer.