in 1800
At eve, beside the ringlet's haunted green
I linger oft, while o'er my lonely head
The aged rowan hangs her berries red;
For there, of old, the merry elves were seen,
Pacing with printless feet the dewy grass;
And there I view, in many a figur'd train,
The marshall'd hordes of sea-birds leave the main,
And o'er the dark-brown moors hoarse-shrieking pass.
Next in prophetic pomp along the heath
I see dim forms their shadowy bands arrange,
Which seem to mingle in encounter strange,
To work with glimmering blades the work of death:
In fancy's eye their meteor falchions glare;
But, when I move, the hosts all melt in liquid air.