So high The rock's bleak summit[69] frowns above our head, Looking immediate down, we almost fear Lest some enormous fragment should descend With hideous sweep into the vale, and crush The intruding visitant.

No sound is here, 260 Save of the stream that shrills, and now and then A cry as of faint wailing, when the kite Comes sailing o'er the crags, or straggling lamb Bleats for its mother.

Here, remote from man, And life's discordant roar, might Piety Lift up her early orisons to Him Who made the world; who piled up, mighty rocks, Your huge o'ershadowing summits; who devolved The mighty rivers on their mazy course; Who bade the seasons roll, and they rolled on 270 In harmony; who filled the earth with joy, And spread it in magnificence.

O GOD! Thou also madest the great water-flood, The deep that uttereth thy voice; whose waves Toss fearful at thy bidding.

Thou didst speak, And lo! the great and glorious sun, from night Tenfold upspringing, through the heavens' wide way Held his untired career.