 | Orellana and Other Poems |  |
247
VII. A TERROR OF THE TWILIGHT.
Far in Norwegian solitudes we strayed:Behind us lay a long bright summer day,
But evening now was stooping o'er our way,
When, at a sudden turn, alarmed we stayed.
It was a terror by the twilight made
Of river, cliff, and cloud, and the weird play
Of sunset's one live liberated ray
Piercing the horror of the pinewood shade.
Stood, like a charred cross, or a huge sword-hilt,
Against the sky, above the cliff's black line,
That seemed a bastion by Harfager built,
A solitary thunder-blasted pine;
On the dark flood below, the sunset spilt
What now was blood and now was wassail-wine.
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