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Rh Like to vast castles rear'd in middle air. The ice has sculptur'd too strange imagery— Obelisks, columns, spires, fantastic piles; Some like the polish'd marble, others clear As the rock crystal, others sparkling with The hues that melt along the sunborn bow. And winter frowns upon the throne, which he Has been whole ages raising, and beneath, The gloomy vallies, like his footstool lie, Where summer never comes—where never spring Wreathes the young flowers round her golden hair. The sun looks forth in beauty, but in vain, Those dark vales never know the light of noon: But there they hide them in their sullenness, As the pale spirit of desolation chose Them for his lonely haunt. No trace hath been Of living thing upon those untrack'd snows; Nought hath pass'd o'er them but the printless wind;