Yes, I will go, where circling whirlwinds rise,
Where threatening clouds in sable grandeur lour;
Where the blast yells, the liquid columns pour,
And maddening billows combat with the skies!
There, while the Demon of the Tempest flies
On growing pinions through the troublous hour,
The wild waves gasp impatient to devour,
And on the rock the wakened vulture cries!
Oh! dreadful solace to the stormy mind—
To me, more pleasing than the valley's rest,
The woodland songsters, or the sportive kind
That nip the turf, or prune the painted crest;
For in despair alone, the wretched find
That unction sweet, which lulls the bleeding breast!