The firwood quakes;
Thou easiest down, with root and branch, the fir
Thou seizest on the rock,
And roll'st it scornful like a pebble on.
Thee the sun clothes in dazzling beams of glory,
And paints with colours of the heavenly bow
The clouds that o'er thy dusky cataracts climb.
Why hasten so to the cerulean sea?
Is not the neighbourhood of heaven good?
Not grand thy temple of encircling rocks?