Note 476 — Chapter XVIII · [465]

“It was a wild and strange retreat, As e’er was trod by outlaw’s feet. The dell, upon the mountain’s crest, Yawned like a gash on warrior’s breast; Its trench had staid full many a rock, Hurl’d by primeval earthquake shock From Ben-Venue’s grey summit wild, And here, in random ruin piled, They frowned incumbent o’er the spot, And formed the rugged sylvan grot. The oak and birch, with mingled shade, At noontide there a twilight made, Unless where short and sudden shone From straggling beam on cliff or stone, With such a glimpse as prophet’s eye Gains on thy depth, Futurity. No murmur wak’d the solemn still, Save tinkling of a fountain rill; But when the wind chafed with the lake, A sullen sound would upward break, With dashing hollow voice, that spoke The incessant war of wave and rock. Suspended cliffs, with hideous sway, Seem’d nodding o’er the cavern grey. Grey Superstition’s whisper dread, Debarred the spot to vulgar tread; For there, she said, did fays resort, And satyrs hold their sylvan court, By moon-light tread their mystic maze, And blast the rash beholder’s gaze.” Lady of the Lake, c. iii. s. 26.