With dashing hollow voice, that spoke
The incessant war of wave and rock.
Suspended cliffs, with hideous sway,
Seem’d nodding o’er the cavern grey.
Grey Superstition’s whisper dread,
Debarred the spot to vulgar tread;
For there, she said, did fays resort,
And satyrs hold their sylvan court,
By moon-light tread their mystic maze,