No storied castle overawes these heights,
Nor antique arches check the current’s play,
Nor mouldering architrave the mind invites
To dream of deities long passed away.
No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft
Of marble, yellowed by a thousand years,
Lifts a great land-mark to the little craft,—
A summer cloud! that comes and disappears.
But cliffs, unaltered from their primal form
Since the subsiding of the deluge, rise