III.
Now by the glimm’ring torch’s ray
I tread Pozzuoli’s cavern’d way—
Hollow grot! that might beseem
Th’ Ætnean cyclop, Polypheme:
And here the bat at noonday ’bides,
And here the houseless beggar hides,
While the holy hermit’s voice
Glads me with accustom’d noise.
Now I trace, or trav’llers err,