Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed;
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters—war within themselves to rage.
Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand,
For here not one, but many, make their play,
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork’d
His lightnings—as if he did understand
That in such gaps as desolation work’d,