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Now every petty brook that crawled along, Railing its pebbles, mocks the river's rage, Like the proud frog i' the fable. The huge Danube, While melting mountains rush into its tide, Rolls with such headstrong and unreinèd course, As it would choke the Euxine's gulphy maw, Bursting his crystal cerements. The breathing time Of

peace expired that hushed the deafʼning scenes Of clam'rous indignation, ruffian War Rebels, and Nature stands at odds again: When the roused Furies of the fighting winds Torment the main; that swells its angry sides, And churns the foam betwixt its flinty jaws; While through the savage dungeon of the night The horrid thunder growls. Th’ ambitious waves Assault the skies, and from the bursting clouds Drink the glib lightning; as if the seas Would quench the ever-burning fires of heaven. Straight from their slippery pomp they madly plunge And kiss the lowest pebbles. Wretched they That ʼmidst such rude vexation of the deep Guide a frail vessel! Better ice-bound still, Than mock'd with liberty thus be resign'd To the rough fortune of the froward time; When Navigation all a-tiptoe stands On such unsteady footing. Now they mount On the tall billow's top, and seem to jowl Against the stars; whence (dreadful eniinence !) They see with swimming eyes (enough to hurry round In endless vértigo the dizzy brain) A gulph that swallows vision, with wide mouth Steep-yawning to receive them; down they duck To the rugged bottom of the main, and view The adamantine gates of vaulted hell:


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Thence toss'd to light again; till borne adrift
Against some icy mountain's bulging sides
They reel, and are no more.—Nor less by land
Ravage the winds, that in their wayward rage
Howl thro' the wide unhospitable glens;
That rock the stable-planted towers, and shake
The hoary monuments of ancient time
Down to their flinty bases; that engage
As they would tear the mountains from their roots,
And brush the high heavens with their woody heads,
Making the stout oaks bow.—But I forget
That sprightly Ver trips on old Winter's heel:
Cease we these notes too tragic for the time,
Nor jar against great Nature's symphony;
When even the blustrous elements grow tuneful,
Or listen to the concert. Hark! how loud
The cuckoo wakes the solitary wood!
Soft sigh the winds as o'er the greens they stray,
And murmuring brooks within their channels play.

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Last night I dreamt,
Whate'er it may forebode it moves me strangely,
That I was rapt into the raving deep;
An old and reverend sire conducted me:
He plunged into the bosom of the main,
And bade me not to fear, but follow him.
I followed; with impetuous speed we dived,
And heard the dashing thunder o'er our heads.

1 'Progne :' daughter of Pandion, and wife of Tereus— turned into a swallow, to save her from the wrath of her cruel and unfaithful husband. Dee Grecian Mythology, which, however, in some versions of the story, makes Progne the nightingale, and Philomela the swallow.


Many a slippery fathom down we sunk,
Beneath all plummet's sound, and reached the bottom.
When there, I asked my venerable guide
If he could tell me where my sister was;
He told me that she lay not far from thence
Within the bosom of a flinty rock,
Where Neptune kept her for his paramour
Hid from the jealous Amphitrite's sight;
And said he could conduct me to the place.
I begged he would. Through dreadful ways we past,
*Twixt rocks that frightfully lowered on either side,
Whence here and there the branching coral sprung; 20
O’er dead men's bones we walked, o'er heaps of gold

and gems,




Into a hideous kind of wilderness,
Where stood a stern and prison-looking rock,
Daubed with a mossy verdure all around,
The mockery of paint. As we drew near
Out sprung a hydra from a den below,
A speckled fury; fearfully it hissed,
And rolled its sea-green eyes so angrily
As it would kill with looking. My old guide
Against its sharp head hurled a rugged stone-
The curling monster raised a brazen shriek,
Wallowed and died in fitful agonies.
We gained the cave. Through woven adamant
I looked, and saw my sister all alone.
Employed she seemed in writing something sad,
So sad she looked: her cheek was wondrous wan,
Her mournful locks like weary sedges hung.
I called-she, turning, started when she saw me,
And threw her head aside as if ashamed;
She wept, but would not speak—I called again;
Still she was mute.—Then madly I address'd


With all the lion-sinews of despair,
To break the flinty ribs that held me out;
And with the struggling waked.




The sun went down in wrath; The skies foamed brass, and soon th' unchained winds Burst from the howling dungeon of the north: And raised such high delirium on the main, Such angry clamour; while such boiling waves Flashed on the peevish eye of moody night, It looked as if the seas would scald the heavens. Still louder chid the winds, the enchafèd surge Still answered louder; and when the sickly morn Peeped ruefully through the blotted thick-browed east To view the ruinous havoc of the dark, The stately towers of Athens seemed to stand On hollow foam tide-whipt; the ships that lay Scorning the blast within the marble arms Of the sea-chid Portumnus,' danced like corks Upon th' enragèd deep, kicking each other; And some were dashed to fragments in this fray Against the harbour's rocky chest. The sea So roared, so madly raged, so proudly swelled, As it would thunder full into the streets, And steep the tall Cecropian battlements In foaming brine. The airy citadel, Perched like an eagle on a high-browed rock, Shook the salt water from its stubborn sides With eager quaking; the Cyclades appeared Like ducking cormorants—Such a mutiny

Portumnus :' god of harbours--the same with the Palæmon of the




Out-clamoured all tradition, and gained belief
To ranting prodigies of heretofore.
Seven days it stormed, &c.




1 Full many a fiend did haunt this house of rest,

And made of passive wights an easy prey. Here Lethargy with deadly sleep opprest,

Stretched on his back a mighty lubbard lay, Heaving his sides; and snorèd night and day.

To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-opened eyne he shut straightway:

He led I ween the softest way to death, , And taught withouten pain or strife to yield the breath.

2 Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,

Soft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsie;
Unwieldy man, with belly monstrous round

For ever fed with watery supply;
For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.

And here a moping mystery did sit,
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye:

She called herself the Hypochondriac Fit, And frantic seemed to some, to others seemed a wit.

3 A lady was she whimsical and proud, Yet oft through fear her pride would crouchen

She felt or fancied in her fluttering mood

All the diseases that the spitals know,
And sought all physic that the shops bestow;

And still new leeches and new drugs would try.

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