8
IV.
Up flies the steaming spray, and on the floodSheds the dire umbrage of its winding shroud;Yet ere to heaven it wreathes its hoary cloud, iFar off conspicuous, In her wildest moodSweet Iris k wantons there, and sketches gayMany a bright segment of her tinted bow,That float their moment till the breezes blowThe draft and shadowy tablet both away.Now stand we on the thin and dizzy ledge lSelf-poised and pendent o'er the black abyss,And lean, and listen by the torrent's edge,And watch its fall, and hear it roar and hiss, Like serpent foul m whereof old sages sing, Or Hell's divan transformed to hail their venturous king.
