Here, the dark pines clothe the steep mountain-side,
There, heavy beetling cliffs, rugged and bald,
Lift their gray heads above the sunny tide —
Like the stern phantom of some Prophet-Scald
Of the old time, by magic wiles enthralled:
Full of his Scandinavian fire, and yet
Spell-bound and silent, like a ghost appalled.
A river, winding, like a rivulet,
Through the thick woods and reverential hills, has set.