Page:National Lyrics.pdf/237



I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, The birth-place of phantoms, the home of the cloud; Around it for ever deep music is swelling, The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. 'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan; Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulphs faintly gleaming, And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.