Джон Армстронг (John Armstrong)

A Storm

Raised to account for the late return of a Messenger.

The sun went down in wrath;
The skies foam'd brass, and soon th' unchained wind:
Burst from the howling dungeon of the north:
And rais'd such high delirium on the main,
Such angry clamour; while such boiling waves
Flash'd on the peevish eye of moody night,
It look'd as if the seas would scald the heavens.
Still louder chid the winds, th' enchafed surge
Still answered louder; and when the sickly morn
Peep'd ruefully through the blotted thick--brow'd east
To view the ruinous havock of the dark,
The stately towers of Athens seem'd to stand
On hollow foam tide--whipt; the ships that lay
Scorning the blast within the marble arms
Of the sea--chid Portumnus, danc'd like corks
Upon th' enraged deep, kicking each other;
And some were dash'd to fragments in this fray
Against the harbour's rocky chest. The sea
So roar'd, so madly raged, so proudly swell'd,
As it would thunder full into the streets,
And steep the tall Cecropian battlements
In foaming brine. The airy citadel,
Perch'd like an eagle on a high--brow'd rock,
Shook the salt water from its stubborn sides
With eager quaking; the Cyclades appear'd
Like ducking Cormorants--Such a mutiny
Out--clamour'd all tradition, and gain'd belief
To ranting prodigies of heretofore.
Seven days it storm'd, &c. 

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