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116 As the bright procession wound Yonder distant summits round, Like a long mist wreath it past Gently wafted by the blast— As it drew in dazzling rank Nearer—nearer—to thy bank— In thy wild expanse it sank! Sank—like snow-flakes in the sun Softly—brightly—one by one! Sank—like moonbeams on the sea Sadly—sweetly—gleamily!
 * Oh, pure and bloodless as thy wave—

Ere morning o’er the mountains rose— Was each fantastic mound and cave That round thy billows blackly close. At dawn the note of battle sounded— Blithe from his couch each warrior bounded, To guide his courser’s swelling form, And arching neck, and eye of fire, And godlike ecstasy of ire, On the fierce children of the storm, That dwell with axe and shield On Ocean’s dreary field— And pitch their winged tents Amid the elements! It was a beauteous sight at dawn, When cheerily as to the chase From each sequestered valley drawn, And sylvan nook, and upland lawn, Those fated youths of Gwyneth’s race Swept cloud-like down each rocky way, As if to greet the new-born day,