The cataract, whirling down the precipice...

The cataract, whirling down the precipice,

Elbows down rocks and, shouldering, thunders through.

Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease;

Hell and its agonies seem hid below.

Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew;

The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green.

Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through,

Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.