Hills rolled in woods, that lair the lynx and fox;

Harsh fields, that lean before the woods' advance

As wild-men fly from hunters, tossing locks

Through which their eyes of yellow fire glance;

Great blurs of briers and lugubrious rocks,—

A bristling blackness,—with a pool beneath,

Whereo'er the wisps, like something evil, dance;

And then a house like the wrecked face of death.

There where the moon hangs sinister, o'er parched

And haggard thorns,—a golden battle-bow,

Or shield of bronze, old wars have scarred and scorched,—