| |
| AGAIN the rush tumultuous—the bound— | |
| The tossings to and fro—the surge—the swell; | |
| The mighty uproar, and the crash profound; | |
| That make the cedars a vast, watery hell, | |
| More vast and grand than eloquence can tell. | 5 |
| How the strong surges strike the naked rocks | |
| With Thor-like force, with purpose mad and fell! | |
| The scornful reef their sudden onset mocks, | |
| And like a mail-clad knight resists their deadliest shocks. | |
| |
| As when some host roused Tartarus invades, | 10 |
| The vast deeps heave with being; these white crests | |
| Like furies seem to rise as from the shades, | |
| To wreak their urging Demon’s grim behests. | |
| What power and grace, what grandeur here invests | |
| The awful shapes’ profound sonorous chime, | 15 |
| Could we divine that voice that never rests, | |
| But shouts its solemn pæan through all time, | |
| As the long ages toil on their grand march sublime. | |
| |
| The waters strike the unprotected isles, | |
| And shake their leafy verdure. We can see | 20 |
| The church spire yonder as the moonlight smiles | |
| Upon it; passing wildly, fancy-free, | |
| Where we can touch the trees. In frolic glee | |
| We ride the stoutest billows as the breeze | |
| Wafts down a gracious perfume on our lee, | 25 |
| Fresh from the Isle of Flowers, where the bees | |
| Sup with their Floral Queen on honeyed courtesies. | |
| |
| The current seeks no rest. Sullen and swift, | |
| And hounded by the rapid in its fear, | |
| Like a lost murderer it knows no thrift, | 30 |
| No peace forever: on his startled ear | |
| A voice incessant peals; loud footfalls near | |
| Tell of the dread pursuer. So the stream | |
| Hears far-off howlings, vengeful, shrill, and drear, | |
| Till like an arrow, like a sudden beam, | 35 |
| It strikes the vexed cascades, and ends its fitful dream. | |
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