His brandished arms; his stature scarce could brook
Its confine; swelling wide, it seemed to grow
As grows a cedar on a mountain’s brow
By the mad air in ruffling breezes took!
IX.
The woods are deaf and will not be aroused—
The mountains are asleep, they hear him not,
Nor from deep-founded silence can be wrought,
Tho’ herded bison on their steeps have browsed:
Beneath their hanks in darksome stillness housed