V

Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed.