Goes up amid the rainbow and the mist.

Their chorus shakes the ground. I feel the rock

On which my feet hang idly—as they hung

O’er babbling brooks in boyhood—quivering

Under the burst of music. Awful voice!

And strong, triumphant waters! Do I stand

Indeed amid your shoutings? Is it mine

To shout upon this grey cliff, where the bird,

The cloudy monarch-bird, shrieks from his crag,

O’er which he’s wheel’d for cent’ries. I lift up