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BOOK IV, ll. 328-336.

The murmuring tide Lull'd her, and many a pensive pleasing dream Rose in sad shadowy trains at Memory's call. She thought of Arc, and of the dingled brook, Whose waves oft leaping on their craggy course Made dance the low-hung willow's dripping twigs; And where it spread into a glassy lake, Of the old oak which on the smooth expanse, Imag'd its hoary mossy-mantled boughs.