The pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks,
And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground,
The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks,
And whirl'st them like pebbles contemptuously round.
The sun-beams have cloth'd thee in glorious dyes,
They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow
Those hovering columns of vapour that rise
Forth from the bubbling cauldron below.
But why art thou seeking the ocean's dark brine?
If grandeur makes happiness, sure it is found,
When forth from the depths of the rock-girdled mine
Thou boundest, and all gives response to thy sound.
Beware thee, O torrent, of yonder dark sea,
For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod,
Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,--
Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.
True, it is pleasant, at eve or at noon,
To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays,
When ting'd with the light of the wandering moon,
Or red with the gold of the midsummer rays.
But, torrent, what is it? what is it?--behold
That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare,
What is the summer sun's purple and gold
To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air.
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