Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/425

CANTO IV.] Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes

Of a new world, than only thus to be

Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,

With many windings, through the vale:—Look back!

Lo! where it comes like an Eternity,

As if to sweep down all things in its track,

Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract,

LXXII.

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,

From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,

An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,

Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn