Page:Translations (1834).djvu/133



to the bard who feels the hate So oft—of unpropitious fate! Last night as from the inn I came 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!