From this deep chasm—where quivering
sun-beams play
Upon its loftiest crags—mine eyes behold2
A gloomy Niche, capacious, blank, and cold ;3
A concave free from shrubs and mosses grey ;4
In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray,5
Some Statue, placed amid these regions old6
For tutelary service, thence had rolled,7
Startling the flight of timid Yesterday !8
Was it by mortals sculptur’d ?— weary
Of slow-endeavour ! or abruptly cast10
Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast11
Tempestuously let loose from central caves ?12
Or fashion’d by the turbulence of waves,13
Then, when o’er highest hills the Deluge
past ?