XLVII.

'In the deep windings of the grove, no more 'The hag obscene, and grisly phantom dwell; 'Nor in the fall of mountain-stream, or roar 'Of winds, is heard the angry spirit's yell; 'No wizard mutters the tremendous spell, 'Nor sinks convulsive in prophetic swoon; 'Nor bids the noise of drums and trumpets swell, 'To ease of fancied pangs the labouring moon, 'Or chace the shade that blots the blazing orb of noon.