Xxv

The stranger viewed the shore around, 'Twas all so close with copsewood bound, Nor track nor pathway might declare That human foot frequented there, Until the mountain-maiden showed A clambering, unsuspected road, That winded through the tangled screen, And opened on a narrow green, Where weeping birch and willow round With their long fibres swept the ground. Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, Some chief had framed a rustic bower.