Majestic pile! thy rich and splendid tower
O'erlooks the ocean with aspiring pride,
Daring the insults rude of wind and shower,
And greeting Time with presence dignified.
Firm as a rock yet seems thy massy power,
Though thou hast seen life's mightiest thrust aside,
And Ages crumble at thy fect in dust;
And the imperious Sea, as rightful dower,
Claim thousands of wrecked ships, to hold in trust,
As dark Oblivion's harvests of the storm.
Waves yet may lash, and the loud hurricane
Threaten thy cloud-capt dwelling, and deform
The sky in glooms around thee,—all is vain:
Empires may pass away, but thou'lt remain—
Smiling in sunshine, as the storm frowns by,
Whose dreadful rage seems to thy quiet thrall
As small birds' twitterings, that beneath thee fly.
Winds call aloud, and they may louder call,
For, deaf to Danger's voice, sublime and grand
Thou tower'st in thy old majesty o'er all.
Tempests, that break the tall masts like a wand,
Howl their rage weary round thee; and no more
Impression make, than summer winds that bow
The little trembling weeds upon thy wall.
Lightnings have blazed their centuries round thy brow,
And left no print-marks:—so in shadows hoar
Time decks and spares thee, till that doom is hurled
That burns the ocean dry, and wrecks the world.