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.