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BLOMIDON. Dark was thy coming, and with fire and dearth ; Internal shudderings and voiceless throes ; When from the burning depths thy form arose To he all black and shapeless on the earth ; To span the seas afar as with a girth, Moveless before the mighty tidal blows, Girding the valleys for a long repose. Till life should vaguely long and come to birth. O patient greatness of a slow pursuit. The purpose of a hundred centuries, Clothed with the forest glory and green plains ; Thy rock now sleeps beneath the spreading root And mould of ages ; and a splendor skies Thee, child of earth, now laid in flowery chains.
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