81
THE SNOW IMAGE.
The bard, in going on a visit to Morvyth, tumbles over an image of snow.
Woe to the bard who feels the hate
So oft—of unpropitious fate!
Last night as from the inn I came[1]
To her who wears the clear moon’s flame,
In thought exulting—and beguiled
By spirits boisterous and wild—
O’er savage hills I took my way,
Amid the wintry tempest’s fray;
The snow came pelting fierce and fast,
Hurled in thick vollies by the blast;
Drifts lined the mountains and the rocks—
And every bower had frosty locks!
The blinded bard, amid those bowers,
Laughed not, I ween—as in Spring’s hours!
As vexed and goaded on by fear,
I hurried thus in full career,
I marked not that the landscape’s hue
At every step still whiter grew!
- ↑ Tafarn Gwin, ‘the tavern of wine.’
