第11章 XI.

The western waves of ebbing day Rolled o'er the glen their level way;Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire.

But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle;Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass, Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.

The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement.

Or seemed fantastically set With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever decked, Or mosque of Eastern architect.

Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lacked they many a banner fair;For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o'er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen, The briar-rose fell in streamers green, kind creeping shrubs of thousand dyes Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.