Adown the black and craggy boss
Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge
Tradition calls the Hero’s Targe.
Couch’d on a shelve beneath its brink,
Close where the thundering torrents sink,
Rocking beneath their headlong sway,
And drizzled by the ceaseless spray,
Midst groan of rock, and roar of stream,
The wizard waits prophetic dream.