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.