STERNLY and darkly upheaves the rock,
Throne for the thunder when storm is nigh;—
Battered and cleft in each century’s shock,
Broadly its furrowed brow flouts the sky;
Bare save the cedars that clutch the seams
And moss-gold streaked like the sunset gleams.
Glossy the lake in its lovely hush;
Winds the deep cove at the crag’s steep foot;
But keen white lightnings have seen the crush
Of the stately pine-tree, branch and root.
Splintered and scorched on the rocks it lies,
Where proudly its plume once sought the skies.
The breath of the storm now blots the crag;
Ghostly and grim point the skeleton trees;
Blacken the rifts;—but the lightnings lag;—
Blacken the cedars;—no stir of breeze;—
Blacker and blacker the great crag’s scowl;—
Hark! the fierce storm-lion’s distant growl!
The rocks below gleam a ghastly light;
The fish-hawk cowers for shelter there;
The distant island frowns, robed in night;
See, the lake leaps to a startling glare!
The growl has deepened—a roar—a crash—
Thicken red lightnings, white surges dash.
Gloomy the crag, like a guilty dream!
Motions all over tell writhing boughs;
Billows break on it, down torrents stream,
Flashing through darkness; the strong blast ploughs
O’er it and down it;—thus ever should be
Wild crag and wild storm in company!