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Cliffs doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn;
Cliffs which, for many a later year,
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the grove,
Ambition is no cure for love.

XXVIII.
Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine,
To ancient Riddell's fair domain,
 Where Aill, from mountains freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come;
Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
 Like the mane of a chesnut steed.
In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.
At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddle-bow;