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0 BERO N. CANTO VIII. IN OW the first range of clifis was overpast, And, like a rocky hall before him lay, By fir-trees vaulted from the light of day, A little dell with twilight shade o'ercast. His wearied limbs with nameless shudders thrill, Slow as he totters down the gloomy hill. It seems as if terrestrial footsteps rude On the dark shrine of loneliness intrude, And dare invade the realm of lifeless shadows still. Along a path, whose gentle windings steal Down the low dell, he finds a narrow bridge ; And where it spans the rocks from ridge to ridge, Hoarse waves beneath in eddying circles wheel; The changing scene his aftive spirits fir'd : Up the steep mount, with nimble force inspir'd, Gay springs Sir Huon where the path-way leads, Then slowly sinks 'mid rocks whose height impedes All hope of further flight beyond this spot retir'd. And now the little path he long had trod Is, as by magic, vanish'd from his eyes— In vain to find its trace the wanderer tries—At length, where 'mid the cliffs wild bushes nod, A little opening indistinftly seen, Leads where a path that steals the thorns between, In narrow circles winding round and round, Thro' the steep mountains to a dell profound, Sinks down a hundred steps—wild fairy work I ween. From the last step as Huon faint descends, Gay smiles, like Paradise, the lovely scene : A man before him stands of noble mien, Below his breast his silver beard extends, A girdle broad around his body roll'd, Confines his russet mantle's simple fold, And a long rosary at his girdle hung ; By such plain signs, these lonely rocks among, All may aread his state without conjefture bold. But weak with hunger, with fatigue o'erdone,Amid these cliffs, beneath whose dreary height No trace of man had ever cheer'd h...
