It was a wild and strange retreat, As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet.

The dell, upon the mountain's crest, Yawned like a gash on warrior's breast;Its trench had stayed full many a rock, Hurled by primeval earthquake shock From Benvenue's gray summit wild, And here, in random ruin piled, They frowned incumbent o'er the spot And formed the rugged sylvan "rot.

The oak and birch with mingled shade At noontide there a twilight made, Unless when short and sudden shone Some straggling beam on cliff or stone, With such a glimpse as prophet's eye Gains on thy depth, Futurity.

No murmur waked the solemn still, Save tinkling of a fountain rill;But when the wind chafed with the lake, A sullen sound would upward break, With dashing hollow voice, that spoke The incessant war of wave and rock.

Suspended cliffs with hideous sway Seemed nodding o'er the cavern gray.

From such a den the wolf had sprung, In such the wild-cat leaves her young;Yet Douglas and his daughter fair Sought for a space their safety there.

Gray Superstition's whisper dread Debarred the spot to vulgar tread;For there, she said, did fays resort, And satyrs hold their sylvan court, By moonlight tread their mystic maze, And blast the rash beholder's gaze.