But they came—the wind, and sea, And rain and thunder, that in giant glee, Sang o’er the lightnings pale, as to and fro They writhed, like stricken angels!—white as snow Roll’d billow after billow, and the tide Came forward as an army deep and wide, To charge with all its waters. There was heard A murmur far and far, of those that stirr’d Within the great encampment of the sea, And dark they were, and lifted terribly Their water-spouts like banners. It was grand To see the black battalions, hand in hand Striding to conflict, and their helmets bent Below their foamy plumes magnificent! And Julio heard and laugh’d. “Shall I be king To your great hosts, that ye are murmuring For one to bear you to your holy war? There is no sun, or moon, or any star, To guide your iron footsteps as ye go, But I, your king, will marshal you to flow From shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell, That I may ride before you terrible; And bring my sceptre of the amber weed, And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall lead Your summer hosts, when these are ambling low, In azure and in ermine, to and fro.” He said, and madly, with his wasted hand Swept o’er the tuneless harp, and fast he spanned The silver chords, until a rush of sound Came from them, solemn—terrible—profound; And then he dash’d the instrument away Into the waters, and the giant play Of billows threw it back unto the shore, A shiver’d, stringless frame—its day of music o’er! The tide, the rolling tide! the multitude Of the sea surges, terrible and rude, Tossing their chalky foam along the bed Of thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread. And fast retreating to the gloomy gorge Of waters, sounding like a Titan forge! It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide! But Julio is bending to his bride, And making mirthful whispers to her ear, A cataract! a cataract is near, Of one stupendous billow, and it breaks Terribly furious, with a myriad flakes Of foam, that fly about the haggard twain; And Julio started, with a sudden pain, That shot into his heart; his reason flew Back to her throne: he rose, and wildly threw His matted tresses over on his brow. Another billow came, and even now Was dashing at his feet. There was no shade Of terror, as the serpent waters play’d Before him, but his eye was calm as death. Another, yet another! and the breath Of the weird wind was with it, like a rock Unriveted it fell—a shroud of smoke Pass’d over—there was heard, and died away, The voice of one shrill-shrieking “Agathè!”