He loves to drown his bosom's jar Amid the elemental war: And my black Palmer's choice had been Some ruder and more savage scene, Like that which frowns round dark Lochskene. There eagles scream from isle to shore; Down all the rocks the torrents roar; O'er the black waves incessant driven, Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. Some demon's subterranean cave, Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell, Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell. And well that Palmer's form and mien Had suited with the stormy scene, Just on the edge, straining his ken, Where, deep deep down, and far within, Marriot, thy harp, on Isis strung, To many a Border theme has rung: Of this mysterious Man of Woe. |