Mild blows the Zephyr o'er the Ocean dark, The Zephyr wafting the grey twilight clouds Across the waves, to drink the solar rays And blush with purple. By the orient gleam Whitening the foam of the blue wave that breaks Around his granite feet, but dimly seen, Majestic Michael rises. He whose brow Is crown'd with castles, and whose rocky sides Are clad with dusky ivy: he whose base, Beat by the storm of ages, stands unmoved Amidst the wreck of things, the change of time. That base encircled by the azure waves, Was once with verdure clad: the tow'ring oaks There waved their branches green,--the sacred oaks Whose awful shades among, the Druids stray'd To cut the hallow'd miseltoe, and hold High converse with their Gods. On yon rough crag, Where the wild Tamarisk whistles to the sea blast, The Druid's harp was heard, swept by the breeze To softest music, or to grander tones Awaken'd by the awful master's hand. Those tones shall sound no more! the rushing waves, Raised from the vast Atlantic, have o'erwhelm'd The sacred groves. And deep the Druids lie In the dark mist-clad sea of former time. Ages had pass'd away, the stony altar Was white with moss, when on its rugged base Dire Superstition raised the gothic fane, And monks and priests existed. On the sea The sunbeams tremble; and the purple light Illumes the dark Bolerium,[10] seat of storms. High are his granite rocks. His frowning brow Hangs o'er the smiling Ocean. In his caves Th' Atlantic breezes murmur. In his caves, Where sleep the haggard Spirits of the storm, Wild dreary are the _schistine_[11] rocks around Encircled by the wave, where to the breeze The haggard Cormorant shrieks. And far beyond Are seen the cloud-like Islands, grey in mists.[12]