George Borrow Poems
Ode To A Mountain
How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam,
And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill,
When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home,
’Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.
The pine-trees are shaken—they yield to thy shocks,
And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground,
The rocks fly before thee—thou seizest the rocks,
And whirl’st them like pebbles contemptuously round.
The sun-beams have cloth’d thee in glorious dyes,
They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow
Those hovering columns of vapour that rise
Forth from the bubbling ...
Fridleif And Helga
The woods were in leaf, and they cast a sweet shade;
Among them walk'd Helga, the beautiful maid.
The water is dashing o'er yon little stones;
She sat down beside it, and rested her bones.
She sat down, and soon, from a bush that was near,
Sir Fridleif approach'd her with sword and with spear: