 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
VI.
A rough descent, where oft the feetFrom rubbish rude resistance meet,
Proclaim'd that now their progress lay
Adown some lone and secret way,—
Where oft abrupt and sudden shock
Would the very soul of caution mock—
Some dark retreat—where things are done
That may not meet the living sun.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |