The stranger viewed the shore around;
'T was all so close with copsewood bound, Nor track nor pathway might declare That human foot frequented there, Until the mountain maiden showed A clambering unsuspected road, That winded through the tangled screen, And opened on a narrow green, Where weeping birch and willow round With their long fibres swept the ground.
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, Some chief had framed a rustic bower.
