The arching alders with dank moisture shone;
Above, around, the wild vine, as I past,
Waved in slow cadence to the fever blast,
Sweeping in fitful gusts with languid moan.
The thick white mist on mouldering stem and stone,
As evening closed, a fearful shroud rolled fast;
The blinding darkness round her mantle cast,
And quenched my hopes ere half the woods were won;
A dip! a rise! clean vanished mist and shade,
And blissful Eden swam at once to sight!
Clear tops of distant hills, a smiling glade,
And modest farms, blue skies, and pastures bright,
And terraced slopes with grass and flower inlaid,
Bathed in a flood of autumn's golden light.