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, rock-bound coast, where erst the Indian roamed, The iron shoulders of thy furrowed cliffs, Made black with smiting, still in stubborn force Resist the scourging wave. Bright summer suns In all the fervor of their noon-tide heat Obtain no power to harm thee, for thou wrapp'st Thy watery mantle round thee, ever fresh With ocean's coolness, and defy'st their rage.

The storm-cloud is thy glory. Then, thou deck'st Thyself with majesty, and to its frown And voice of thunder, answerest boldly back, And from thy watch-towers hurl'st the blinding spray, While every dark and hollow cavern sounds Its trumpet for the battle. Yet, 'tis sweet Amid thy fissured rocks to ruminate, Marking thy grottos with mosaic paved Of glittering pebbles, and that balm to breathe