THE ECHO ROCK.
59
O lady, of thy voice beware!
In yonder rocky citadels
A profligate pretender dwells,
Who fabricates thy accents there.
Yon bellowing crag with trumpet’s voice,
Bare as the ramparts of the sky,
Hob-goblins in its depths rejoice,
Or dogs amid its caldrons cry.
Its tones are like the scream of pain
Of gander, by the nightmare slain,
Or the hoarse wailing of a hound
Within a stony vessel bound,
Or hag that strives with hollow sound
To terrify the country round,—
Disastrous voice, perfidious guide,
That kept me from my lady’s side!
THE MOON.
THE MOON HIS LOVE ENVOY, OR GUIDE TO MORVYTH.
Ah, woe is me! I long to roam
Far as the foam-hued lady’s home;
But how, alas! can I command
A guide to that far distant land?
