Ages had pass'd away, the stony altar
Was white with moss, when on its rugged base
Dire Superstition raised the gothic fane,
And monks and priests existed.
On the sea
The sunbeams tremble; and the purple light
Illumes the dark Bolerium,[10] seat of storms.
High are his granite rocks. His frowning brow
Hangs o'er the smiling Ocean. In his caves
Th' Atlantic breezes murmur. In his caves,