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Page 197:-
Dark frowns the cliff upon the mountain stream,
That 'gainst its time-worn fragments breaks below,
And all in unison its waters flow
With the wild scene around. The wailing scream
Of the lone raven, from its stunted yew
Heard ominous - alone its solitude
Disturbs; and on the awe-struck sole intrude
Thoughts that its inmost energies subdue
To their strong workings. On the rocky steep
Dimly the grey-haired Son of Song appears;
While o'er the harp his airy fingers sweep;
And at his bidding, forms of other years
Start into being - mighty men of yore -
Like the wild dream that fashioned them - no more!
P.
This may seem sufficiently poetical,- but a writer in sober prose
says, thereanent:
'Surely this is the haunt of the untamed genius of wild poetry -
here, surely, she hatches and broods over her infant ideas - here
perfectly acquaints them with these complicated features, ere she
attempts to teach them how to soar:- I stood picturing to myself
these ideal beings sporting themselves upon the terrific cliffs,
or dancing in airy rings upon the untouched summits of the
thousand multiformed sprays - some taking incredible leaps from
the apex of one cliff to that of another - and others, as wanting
gravity, creeping with their feet heavenward, and laughing and
grinning their derision at my gravity and earthly attraction.'
The cliff on the west side is a rocky promontory about 40 yards
high, spotted with ivy and evergreen shrubs; whilst the Doe runs
beneath over fragments of rocks, forming very romantic cascades.
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