'In the deep windings of the grove, no more
'The hag obscene, and grisly phantom dwell;
'Nor in the fall of mountain-stream, or roar
'Of winds, is heard the angry spirit's yell;
'No wizard mutters the tremendous spell,
'Nor sinks convulsive in prophetic swoon;
'Nor bids the noise of drums and trumpets swell,
'To ease of fancied pangs the labouring moon,
'Or chace the shade that blots the blazing orb of noon.