Or his fierce glance cast where the lightning’s blast,
Hath shivered the rocks in twain.
If you would behold the vision unrolled
Of the Storm-king on his way;
Then his to yon steep that o’erlooks the deep,
Where the weed-strewn sea-caves lay.
When winds have the tone of a dull low moan,
Foretelling a coming blast;
’Tis a sign that he, from his sleep is free,
And gathers his armies fast.