And being thus, still sneers upon his fellow,
And taunts him with his own infirmities;
Till life becomes a scene of wild turmoil,
Of vain, tumultuous striving to become
Masters of others' passions—while our own
Are burning out our hearts.
O what a scene!
The tempest hath begun its terrible play,
And sky, and earth, and ocean are at strife,
With winds, and surge, and thunders, discoursing
With angry voices their hoarse-throated rage!
How the forked lightnings rend the sable sky!
Revealing for an instant the wild sight
Of mountain billows and dark, shapeless rocks;
Showing me where I stand—how near to death—
A rude and pitiless death; yet I stir not,
Nor feel a thrill of fear. I almost wish
Some wave, more daring than the rest, would reach
My perilous footing, bearing me from hence,
To die among its fellows. I would sooner
Die in a scene like this, of nature's strife,
Than living wearily a joyless life,
At last to perish in the savage war
Of jarring human passions. I can hear
The screaming of the sea-gull; well he loves
A time like this; that his sharp voice may be
Distinguished even above the howling blasts
And heavy surgings of the heaving sea.
I, like him, have loved such tempest hours—
But with a different passion: I can feel
The wild sublimity—can steep my soul
In the stern grandeur of this lonely place,
With darkness, waves, and thunder, to impress
Its power upon my spirit; not like him,
Striving to out-noise the tempest. Vain ambition!
Yet many, O how many, strive for this,
