The Spouting Horn

By Hannah Flagg Gould

On the dark rock’s steep
I stood, where the deep
By its view, like a mighty spell, bound me;
While the white foam-wreath
Was weaving beneath,
And the breeze from the waters played round me;
Then wave after wave,
To a low, narrow cave,
Came, as rest from a long journey seeking;
But, “out! out! out!”
Was the word, which the Spout
To its guests seemed eternally speaking.
And each billow seen
Rolling up, soft and green,
To the Horn, full of grace in its motion,
Now wild, as with fright,
Would return snowy white,
And rush, roaring, back to the ocean.
In vain did my eye,
By its search, seek to spy
The monarch of this gloomy dwelling,
Who thus, by the force
Of his voice, stern and hoarse,
The deep in her might was repelling.
What power could be there,
Shut from light, heat and air,
I asked, with the dumbness of wonder;
But, “Out!” was the word,
That alone could be heard,
And in sounds like the roaring of thunder!
O Time! Time! ‘t is thus,
Thou art sporting with us;
Our touch at thy shore proudly spurning.
To eternity we,
As the waves to the sea,
Are broken and restless returning!

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