 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
XVII.
Didst ever mark, in early summer, whenThe mist, at dawn, had filled some mountain glen,
And, standing on its verge of dewy heath,
You could but dimly see what lay beneath,—
How soon, when Morning had begun to stream,
Melted the mist before the warming beam,
And gave the glen, with all its varied bloom,
Its depth of woodbine, and its sides of broom,
With its long rivulet's links of rosy light,
As if by magic, to thy wondering sight?
E'en so the words of Alfred rolled away
The veil of mystery from his minstrel-lay!
Its inspiration's source, erewhile concealed,
In sudden sunshine lay at once revealed!
And judge, my son, with what a thirsty ear
I drank disclosures—new—unhoped—and dear!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |