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Rinaldo sought the cloister's gloom, Far from the busy haunts of men;Where meek religion, calm repose, And holy quiet sooth'd his pain.
AGNES AND THE WATER-SPRITE.
'Twas on a gloomy April day,On Brassa's hills the mist was grey, And cold and chilling was the wind;When Agnes on the rocky shoreSat list'ning to the billows' roar, In musing pensiveness reclin'd.
Fair Agnes was the loveliest maidThat e'er o'er Brassa's mountains stray'd; For fairy form, and angel face,And auburn tresses unconfin'dThat sported wanton to the wind, Had deck'd her with each outward grace.
Oft while the gentle Agnes sung,The rocks with vocal music rung; While Echo, from her mossy cave,Catching the wild notes, warbled high,Or softly as they seem'd to die, Repeats them to the list'ning wave.
