And froth and roar, and fling—but this, I’ve said,
Surged in scarce rougher than a lady’s flounce:—
But then, a grander contrast thus it bred
With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce
Something more awful in the serious ear,
As one would whisper that a lion’s near—
Who just begins to roar; so the hoarse thunder
Growl’d long—but low—a prelude note of death,
As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under,