Chapter XXXIV

The forest branches, woven overhead,
Shut out the day and cast a twilight gloom;--
For where long since extends the verdant mead,
Shines the fair palace, beauteous gardens bloom,
One vault of green o’er-roofed a palisade
Of trunks and brambles, boscage, brake and broom;--
Amid which chafed the warriors’ surly mood,
And cracked and crashed the thickets as they trod.