Make ends meet

And when roars The howling storm - blast through the groaning wood,

Wrenching the giant pine, which in its fall Crashing sweeps down its neighbour

trunks and boughs, While hollow thunder from the hill resounds; Then thou

dost lead me to some shelter'd cave, Dost there reveal me to myself, and

show Of my own bosom the mysterious depths. And when with soothing

beam, the moon's pale orb Full in my view climbs up the pathless sky, From

crag and dewy grove, the silvery forms Of by - gone ages hover, and assuage

The joy austere of contemplative thought.