Skirting the darksome grove. But list! the hum
Of industry, the rattling hammer’s sound,
Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come
On the fast-travelling breeze! Oh no, no voice
Is heard around but thy majestic noise!
When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder,
In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb;
When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder,
As sands they sink into thy mighty womb:
The ice that would imprison thy proud tide