12
VIII.
Between the branches of the horned floodWith shade of loftiest growth and sunny smile,Commingling graced a cool sequester'd isle, rCrowns the high steep, and from its echoing woodProclaims the tumults of the restless valeFar round, and calm as Dian's argent browBrush'd by the clouds, o'erlooks the storm below.There many a stranger woos the breathing gale,Worn with his toilsome ramble: there, they say,Stern Winter oft his shining armoury s rears,Framed in his icy forge; with crystal spearsAnd diamond lances hangs each bending spray, Each trunk with mail, or helm, or buckler bright, By man's slow toils unmatched, the fabric of a night.
