Another, and another, still came in, And fell in jingling ruin at my feet, Making transparent holes that let me win Some samples of the storm:--Oh! it was sweet To think I had a shelter for my skin, Culling them through these “loopholes of retreat”-- Which in a little we began to glaze-- Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize! By which, the cloud had pass’d o’erhead, but play’d Its crooked fires in constant flashes still, Just in our rear, as though it had array’d Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill, So that it lit the town, and grandly made The rugged features of the Castle Hill Leap, like a birth, from chaos, into light, And then relapse into the gloomy night-- As parcel of the cloud:--the clouds themselves, Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting, Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves, That Milton’s devils were engaged in blasting.-- We could e’en fancy Satan and his elves Busy upon those crags, and ever casting Huge fragments loose--and that we _felt_ the sound They made in falling to the startled ground. And so the tempest scowl’d away,--and soon, Timidly shining through its skirts of jet, We saw the rim of the pacific moon, Like a bright fish entangled in a net, Flashing its silver sides,--how sweet a boon, Seem’d her sweet light, as though it would beget, With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas-- Peace in the sky--and coolness in the breeze! Meantime the hail had ceased:--and all the brood Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains;-- At every window, there were maids who stood Lamenting o’er the glass’s small remains,-- Or with coarse linens made the fractious good, Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,-- Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt: The wind resolved--blowing the candles out. No house was whole that had a southern front,-- No green-house but the same mishap befell:-- _Bow_-windows and _bell_-glasses bore the brunt,-- No sex in glass was spared!--For those who dwell On each hill side, you might have swam a punt In any of their parlours;--Mrs. Snell Was slopp’d out of her seat,--and Mr. Hitchin Had a _flow’r_-garden wash’d into a _Kitchen_. [Illustration: SHE FROM OCEAN RISING.] But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaim’d The recent violence.--Each after each The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed, Tapping, like Woodpeckers, the hollow beach. Howbeit his _weather eye_ the seaman aim’d Across the calm, and hinted by his speech A gale next morning--and when morning broke There was a gale--“quite equal to bespoke.”