"'Twas strange that I, a mountain boy,
A lover of green fields and flowers,--
One, who with laughing rills could toy,
And hold companionship for hours,
With leaves that whispered low at night,
Or fountains bubbling from their springs,
Or summer winds, whose downy flight,
Seemed but the sweep of angel wings:--
'Twas strange that I should love the clash
Of ocean in its maddest hour,
And joy to see the billows dash
O'er the rent cliff with fearful power.
'Twas strange,--but I was nature's own,
Unchecked, untutored; in my soul
A harp was set that gave its tone
To every touch without control.
The zephyr stirred in childhood warm,
Thoughts like itself, as soft and blest;
And the swift fingers of the storm
Woke its own echo in my breast.
Aye, and the strings that else had lain
Untouched, and to myself unknown,
Within my heart, gave back the strain
That o'er the sea and rock was thrown.
Yes, and wild passions, which had slept
Within their cradle, as the waves
At morning by the winds unswept,
Rippling within their infant caves--
Now, wakened into billows, rose,
And held communion with the storm:
I saw the air and ocean close
In deadly struggle; marked the form
Of the dun cloud with misty wing,
That wrestled with the giant main;
I saw the racing billows spring
Like lions leaping from the plain;
I saw the surf that upward threw
Gray pyramids of foam to heaven;
I heard the battle-cry that flew
Along the cliff, as though t'were given
To cheer the elemental war;
I heard the wild bird screaming near;
I felt the rock beneath me jar,
As if the granite thrilled with fear;
I saw, I heard,--yet in my heart
The cloud, the cliff, the billow seemed
As of myself an imaged part,--
Things I had seen, or oft had dreamed;
And in my ear, the thundering tide
Was music, and the ocean's moan
An echo of my spirit, wide
As the wave, and stormy as its own.