  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! |
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