The eternal stars of night have witness’d here.
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,[154]
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone,
Propp’d on its granite pillars, whence the rains
And pure bright dews have laved the crimson stains
Left by dark rites of blood: for here, of yore,
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore,
And many a crested oak, which now lies low,
Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe—
Here, at dim midnight, through the haunted shade,