Bastion on bastion, solidly planned,
Hewn, one dare swear, with a nation’s toil,
Rightful resort for adventurous men,
See yon portcullis high-perched o’erhead,
From beneath which marched (can we doubt it?) of yore
Fierce fighting septs of a race long dead?”
Heathery, wine-flushed hills in the sun;
Mountainous peaks, bepinnacled, steep;
Vast domes, lost in a dream of snow;
Billowy downs, beloved of sheep;