NAHANT.
Rude, rock-bound coast, where erst the Indian roamed,
The iron shoulders of thy furrowed cliffs,
Made black with smiting, still in stubborn force
Resist the scourging wave.
Bright summer suns
In all the fervor of their noon-tide heat
Obtain no power to harm thee, for thou wrapp'st
Thy watery mantle round thee, ever fresh
With ocean's coolness, and defy'st their rage.
The storm-cloud is thy glory.
Then, thou deck'st
Thyself with majesty, and to its frown
And voice of thunder, answerest boldly back,
And from thy watch-towers hurl'st the blinding spray,
While every dark and hollow cavern sounds
Its trumpet for the battle.
Yet, 'tis sweet
Amid thy fissured rocks to ruminate,
Marking thy grottos with mosaic paved
Of glittering pebbles, and that balm to breathe
