XXX.

Oh frightful precipice! Full many an eye Glares on its horrid depth and back recoils. Madly to plunge were hopelessly to die, Or torn and shattered fall into the toils. Even lingering here is death! As rankest soils Are strown with richest growths, the valiant strew That gory Scylla’s crest. Charybdis boils With vortex under. What may heroes do? Advance? In vain. Recede? No, Britons’ hearts be true!