The fair Isabel of Cotehele a Cornish romance, in six cantos. By the author of Local attachment, and translator of Theocritus [i.e. Richard Polwhele] |
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The fair Isabel of Cotehele | ||
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Its rocks as into Heaven to liftOn either side where rose the clift,
Its outline, how immense! How deep
The grandeur of its shadowy sweep!
Ribb'd as with iron, smooth as glass,
Or icicled as with eve-drops,
Or from each crevice rough with copse,
Or fractur'd into chasms and caves,
Tufted with privet, shagg'd with pine,
Pinnacled its top, its base
Fretted where slumber now the waves:—
Each polish, and each curving line,
The craggs, the colours dark and light,
Were mingled in one umber'd mass
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Save where the stream at distance broke
Like molten silver thro' the gloom;
Or, a broad cataract, down the rock
Whirl'd its majestic foam:
Or, tinted in the lunar ray,
Sprinkled soft its misty spray.
The fair Isabel of Cotehele | ||