13
IX.
Back o'er the bridge,t which daring art has thrownWide o'er the brawling pass (whose yesty streamsFlash through each crevice of the dancing beams)We haste: the sleepless torrent hurrying onTow'rds its high leap, and whirling on its wayTh' uprooted pine and oak. The scaly herdsAgainst it tire their powerless helms: the birdsOf strongest flight, down stooping for their preyOn that disastrous current, rise no more.Caught by the liquid hurricane they strainTheir ineffectual wings, and flap in vain;With screams unnatural tow'rds th' increasing roar. Forced on at length in silence down they go, And glut th' insatiate gorge, that yawns and yells below.
