How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam,
And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill,
When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home,
Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.
The pine-trees are shakenthey yield to thy shocks,
And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground,
The rocks fly before theethou seizest the rocks,
And whirlst them like pebbles contemptuously round.
The sun-beams have clothd 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 oceans 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 tyrannys 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 tingd 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 suns purple and gold
To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air.
Abandon, abandon, thy headlong career
But downward thou rushestmy words are in vain,
Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer
On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.
Then haste not, O torrent, to yonder dark sea,
For there thou must crouch beneath tyrannys rod;
Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,
Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.
