Torrents below--the torrents still above! 87 Above less awful--as precipitous peak And splinter'd ledge, and many a curve and cove In the compress'd, indented margins, break That crushing sense of power, in which we see What, without Nature's God, would Nature be! Before him stretch'd the maelstrom of the abyss; 88 And, in the central torrent, giant pines, Uprooted from the bordering wilderness By some gone winter's blast--in flashing lines Shot through the whirl--then, pluck'd to the profound, Vanish'd and rose, swift eddying round and round. But on the marge as on the wave thou art, 89 O conquering Death!--what human, hueless face Rests pillow'd on a silenced human heart? What arm still clasps in more than love's embrace That form for which yon vulture flaps its wing? Kneel, Lancelot, kneel, thine eyes behold thy King! Alas! in vain--still in the Death-god's cave, 90 Ere yet the torrent snatch'd the hurrying stream, Beside a crag grey-shimmering from the wave, And near the brink by which the pallid beam Show'd one pent path along the rugged verge, By which to leave the raft and 'scape the surge,-- Alas! in vain, that haven to the ark 91 The dove had given!--just won the refuge-place, When, thrice emerging from the sheeted dark, White glanced a robe, and livid rose a face! He saw, he sprang, he near'd, he grasp'd the vest! And _both_ the torrent grappled to its breast. Yet in the immense and superhuman force, 92 Love and despair bestow upon the bold, The strong man battled with the Titan's course, Grip'd rock and layer, and ledge, with snatching hold, Bruised, bleeding, broken, onwards, downwards driven, No wave his treasure from his grasp had riven Saved, saved--at last before his reeling eyes 93 (Into the pool, that check'd the Fury, hurl'd) Shone, as he rose, through all the hurtling skies, The dove's white wing; and ere the maelstrom whirl'd The madden'd waters to the central shock, Show'd the gnarl'd roots of the redeeming rock. Less sense than instinct caught the wing that shone, 94 The crags that shelter'd;--the wild billows gave The failing limbs a force no more their own, And as he turn'd and sunk, the swerving wave Swoop'd round, dash'd on, and to the isthmus sped, Still breast to breast, the living and the dead! Long vain were Lancelot's cares and knightly skill, 95 Ere, through slow veins congeal'd, pulsed back the blood; The very wounds, the valour of the will, The peaks that broke the fury of the flood Had help'd to save; alas, _the strong_ to save! For Strength to toil, till Love re-opes the grave.