ll. 484-496[1029:1]

Last evening lone in thought I wandered forth. Down in the dingle's depth there is a brook That makes its way between the craggy stones, Murmuring hoarse murmurs. On an aged oak Whose root uptorn by tempests overhangs The stream, I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds Gather before the wind, while the rude dash Of waters rock'd my senses, and the mists Rose round: there as I gazed, a form dim-seen Descended, like the dark and moving clouds That in the moonbeam change their shadowy shapes. His voice was on the breeze; he bade me hail The missioned Maid! for lo! the hour was come.