XLVIII.

Monastic Zitza![149] from thy shady brow,[20.B.] Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground! Where'er we gaze--around--above--below,-- What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, And bluest skies that harmonise the whole: Beneath, the distant Torrent's rushing sound Tells where the volumed Cataract doth roll Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.