With death-defiant roar; though on its way,
With all its swelling peans, to the grave.
And then ’tis hushed again, except the song
Of breaking billows, which the cliffs prolong.
Oh, you may talk of banquetings and balls—
Of wit and merriment at masquerade—
Of revels held in old baronial halls—
Or music murmured in the serenade:
Give me the lay of distant waterfalls,
The song of May birds in the forest shade,