48
A DESCRIPTIVE ODE.
Sure Desolation loves to shroud
His giant form within the cloud
That hovers round thy rugged head;
And as thro' broken vaults beneath,
The future storms low-muttering breathe,
Hears the complaining voices of the dead.
Here marks the Fiend with eager eyes,
Far out at sea the fogs arise
That dimly shade the beacon'd strand,
And listens the portentous roar
Of sullen waves, as on the shore,
Monotonous, they burst and tell the storm at hand.
