Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting,
Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves,
That Milton’s devils were engaged in blasting.—
We could e’en fancy Satan and his elves
Busy upon those crags, and ever casting
Huge fragments loose—and that we felt the sound
They made in falling to the startled ground.
And so the tempest scowl’d away,—and soon,
Timidly shining through its skirts of jet,
We saw the rim of the pacific moon,