And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons cry, Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, [69] 255 Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; [70] Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray; [71] Contentment shares the desolate domain [72] 260 With Independence, child of high Disdain. Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes; And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds 265 The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds, And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast. [73] Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour, [74] 270 All day the floods a deepening murmur pour: The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: Dark is the region as with coming night; But what a sudden burst of overpowering light! Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, 275 Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form![75] Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, [76] At once to pillars turned that flame with gold: 280 Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun The _west_, [77] that burns like one dilated sun, A crucible of mighty compass, felt By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt. [78] But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before 285 The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. [79] And who, that walks where men of ancient days Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, 290 Feels not the spirit of the place control, Or rouse [80] and agitate his labouring soul? Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell, 295 Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, [81] Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; 300 Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" [S] expired?