One scanty pencil of illusive beams,
Suspended crags, and gaping gulfs illumes,
And gilds the horrors of the deepen’d glooms.
Here oft the Naiads, as they chanc’d to stray
Near the dread Fane, on Thor’s returning day,
Saw from red altars streams of guiltless blood,
Stain their green reed-beds, and pollute their flood;
Heard dying babes in wicker prisons wail,
And shrieks of matrons thrill the affrighted gale;
While from dark caves infernal echoes mock,