--_These_ are Alps to me.
LONG did we, noble BLORENGE, gaze
On thee, and mark the eddying haze
That strove to reach thy level crown,
From the rich stream, and smoking town;
And oft, old SKYRID, hail'd thy name,
Nor dar'd deride thy holy fame[1].
[Footnote 1: There still remains, on the summit of the Skyrid, or St.
Michael's Mount, the foundation of an ancient chapel, to which the
inhabitants formerly ascended on Michaelmas Eve, in a kind of pilgrimage.
A prodigious cleft, or separation in the hill, tradition says, was caused
by the earthquake at the crucifixion, it was therefore termed the Holy
Mountain.]
Long follow'd with untiring eye
Th' illumin'd clouds, that o'er the sky
Drew their thin veil, and slowly sped,
Dipping to every mountain's head,
Dark-mingling, fading, wild, and thence,
Till admiration, in suspense,
Hung on the verge of sight. Then sprung,
By thousands known, by thousands sung,
Feelings that earth and time defy,
That cleave to immortality.
A light gray haze enclos'd us round;
Some momentary drops were found,
Borne on the breeze; soon all dispell'd;
Once more the glorious prospect swell'd
Interminably fair[1].
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