O’erleaps the boulders lying in long dream,
Lapped in cold moss; and in its joy doth seem
A wood-born creature bursting from a chain.
And “Triumph, triumph, triumph!” is its hoarse
Fierce-whispered word. O fond, and dost not know
Thy triumph on another wise must be,—
To render all the tribute of thy force,
And lose thy little being in the flow
Of the unvaunting river toward the sea!