_a frozen hurricane_.[4]
Starlight, beautiful, but a devil of a path! Never mind, got safe in;
a little lightning, but the whole of the day as fine in point of
weather as the day on which Paradise was made. Passed _whole woods of
withered pines, all withered_; trunks stripped and lifeless, branches
lifeless; done by a single winter."[5]

[5] Like these _blasted pines,
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless_
MANFRED.

_Shelley and Byron,_

It appears, first met at Geneva:--

There was no want of disposition towards acquaintance on either side,
and an intimacy almost immediately sprung up between them. Among the
tastes common to both, that for boating was not the least strong; and
in this beautiful region they had more than ordinary temptations to
indulge in it. Every evening, during their residence under the same
roof at Secheron, they embarked, accompanied by the ladies and
Polidori, on the Lake; and to the feelings and fancies inspired by
these excursions, which were not unfrequently prolonged into the hour
of moonlight, we are indebted for some of those enchanting stanzas[6]
in which the poet has given way to his passionate love of Nature so
fervidly.

[6] Childe Harold, Canto 3.

"There breathes a living fragrance from the shore
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drips the light drop of the suspended oar.
* * * * *
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy,--for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away."

A person who was of these parties has thus described to me one of
their evenings. 'When the _bise_ or northeast wind blows, the waters
of the Lake are driven towards the town, and, with the stream of the
Rhone, which sets strongly in the same direction, combine to make a
very rapid current towards the harbour. Carelessly, one evening, we
had yielded to its course, till we found ourselves almost driven on
the piles; and it required all our rowers' strength to master the
tide. The waves were high and inspiriting,--we were all animated by
our contest with the elements. 'I will sing you an Albanian song,'
cried Lord Byron; 'now be sentimental, and give me all your
attention.' It was a strange, wild howl that he g