DOVER.
Out on the Shakspeare cliff, and look below!
Seest thou the samphire-gatherer? He no more
Pursues his fearful trade, as when the eye
Of Avon's bard descried him. But the height
Is still as dizzy, and the ruffian winds
Come from their conflict with the raging seas
So vengefully, that it is hard to hold
A footing on the rock.
The moon is forth
In all her queenly plenitude, and scans
The foaming channel with a look of peace,
But ill returned. For such a clamor reigns
Between the ploughing waves and unyoked blasts,
That the hoarse trumpet of the mariner
Seems like the grass-bird's chirp.
And yet 't is grand
To gaze upon the mountain-surge, and hear
How loftily it hurls the challenge back
To the chafed cloud, and feel yourself a speck,
An atom, in His sight, who rules its wrath,
To whom the crush of all the elements
