Has aught like this descended, since the fountains
Of the Great Deep broke up, in cataracts hurled
And climbing lofty hills, eternal mountains,
Poured wave on wave above a buried world?
Yon tides are raging, as when storms have striven,
And the vexed seas, awaking from their sleep,
Are rough with foam, and Neptune’s flocks are driven
In myriads o’er the green and azure deep.
Ere yet they fall, mark (where that mighty current
Comes like an army from its mountain home)
How fiercely yon wild steeds amid the torrent,
With their dark flanks, and manes and crests of foam,
Speed to their doom – yet in the awful centre,
Where the wild waves rush madliest to the steep,
Just ere that white unfathomed gulf they enter,
Rear back in horror from the headlong leap;
Continue reading “Niagara by Henry Howard Brownell”
