OFTTIMES the mighty mountains at their hearts
Are sick and woeful in their majesty ; Then is each one forlorn as Niobe, And from all sight and colloquy departs.
Then in cloud-mantles muffled is each head ; Then bury they their faces in blind mist, Nor by the sun, their lover, are they kissed, Nor by the stars at night are visited. Why weep they? what lament for ?—they are strong, And in their strength exultant. Yet they weep, Perchance for some lost darling they have nursed On their great knees, or for some earthquake's wrong.
1Vhate'er the cause, they deem themselves accursed, And for a season bide in sorrow deep.
Snowdonia, May, 1866.