 | The Lady of La Garaye |  |
But now the ground is rough with boulder stones,
Where, wild beneath, the prisoned streamlet moans;
The prisoned streamlet struggling to be free,
Baring the roots of many a toppling tree,
Breaking the line where smooth-barked saplings rank,
And undermining all the creviced bank;
Till gushing out at length to open space,
Mad with the effort of its desperate race,
It pauses, swelling o'er the narrow ridge
Where fallen branches make a natural bridge,
Leaps to the next descent, and balked no more,
Foams to a waterfall, whose ceaseless roar
Echoes far down the banks, and through the forest hoar!
Where, wild beneath, the prisoned streamlet moans;
The prisoned streamlet struggling to be free,
Baring the roots of many a toppling tree,
Breaking the line where smooth-barked saplings rank,
And undermining all the creviced bank;
Till gushing out at length to open space,
Mad with the effort of its desperate race,
It pauses, swelling o'er the narrow ridge
Where fallen branches make a natural bridge,
Leaps to the next descent, and balked no more,
47
Echoes far down the banks, and through the forest hoar!
| The Lady of La Garaye | |