Oft have I through this solemn glade
Of old dismember’d hollies stray’d,
Whose bold bare rugged brows are seen
Thrust through the mantling ever-green;
Tall clustring columns here ascend,
And there in gothic arches bend;[[10]]
Whilst, as the silver moon-beams rise,
Imagin’d temples strike my eyes,
With tottering spire, and mouldering wall,
And high roof nodding to its fall.—