And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald:--how profound[nf] The gulf! and how the Giant Element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,[ng] Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent LXXI. To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea 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,[452] LXXII. Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris[453] sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. LXXIII. Once more upon the woody Apennine-- The infant Alps, which--had I not before Gazed on their mightier Parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar[nh] The thundering Lauwine[454]--might be worshipped more; But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear[ni] Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near-- And in Chimari heard the Thunder-Hills of fear, LXXIV. Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; And on Parnassus seen the Eagles fly Like Spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame. For still they soared unutterably high: I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye; Athos--Olympus--Ætna.--Atlas--made These hills seem things of lesser dignity; All, save the lone Soracte's height, displayed Not _now_ in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid LXXV. For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain May he, who will, his recollections rake, And quote in classic raptures, and awake The hills with Latian echoes--I abhorred Too much, to conquer for the Poet's sake,[455] The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word In my repugnant youth,[456] with pleasure to record LXXVI.