Right sweetly played!
But oh, I love the caves where all is mute
Save unseen dropping waters, or my flute,
Whose tones are made
So strange by echo, that, transformed, increased,
They ape the voice of some wild wounded beast
Or eager hounds; or wail in cavernous shade
Like souls in Hades wailing unreleased.
And not less well
I love deep gorges, whether, in the spring,
With crash of slipping snow their echoes ring;
Or they compel
A summer storm’s pent thunder, peal on peal,
To roll along them; or their rent flanks feel
Autumnal waters roar; or fierce howls tell
Of captive wintry winds in wild appeal.
Hark, hark! a scream
Of battling eagles o’er a sheer abyss,
And wind of wings above a torrent’s hiss.
The rock-pent stream
Catches the drops of blood, and whirls away
The slow rotating feathers from the fray;
While from the sky the smaller falcons seem
To watch their kings and circle without stay.