Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Spouting Horn
THE SPOUTING HORN.
On the dark rock's steep I stood, where the deepBy its view, like a mighty spell, bound me; While the white foam-wreath Was weaving beneath,And the breeze from the waters played round me;
Then wave after wave, To a low, narrow cave,Came, as rest from a long journey seeking; But, 'out! out! out!' Was the word, which the SpoutTo its guests seemed eternally speaking.
And each billow seen Rolling up, soft and green,To the Horn, full of grace in its motion, Now wild, as with fright, Would return snowy white,And rush, roaring, back to the ocean.
In vain did my eye, By its search, seek to spyThe monarch of this gloomy dwelling, Who thus, by the force Of his voice, stern and hoarse,The deep in her might was repelling.
What power could be there, Shut from light, heat and air,I asked with the dumbness of wonder; But, 'Out!' was the word, That alone could be heard,And in sounds like the roaring of thunder!
O Time! Time! 'tis thus, Thou art sporting with us;Our touch at thy shore proudly spurning. To eternity we, As the waves to the sea,Are exhausted and restless returning!