Page:Miscellaneous Plays 1.pdf/147

Rh

What, art thou sure of this?

I am now come from gazing on the sight. From bank to bank the red swoln river roars; And on the deep and slowly-rolling mass Of its strong centre-tide, grumly and dark, The wrecks of cottages, whole ricks of grain, Trunks of huge trees torn by the roots,—ay, save us! And floating carcases of perish'd things, Bloated and black, are borne along; whilst currents Cross-set and furious, meeting adverse streams On rude uneven surface, far beyond The water's natural bed, do loudly war And terrible contest hold; and swoltring eddies With dizzy whirling fury, toss aloft Their surgy waves i' the air, and scatter round Their ceaseless bick'ring gleams of jagged foam, All fiercely whitening in the morning light. Crowds now are standing upon either shore In awful silence; not a sound is heard But the flood's awful voice, and from the city A dismal bell heard thro' the air by starts, Already tolling for the execution.

What's to be done? fate seems to war against us. No, no! we'll not despair! Mount thy fleet horse,