I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, br The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the oloud; br Around it for ever deep music is swelling, br The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. br 'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, br Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan; br Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming; br And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone. br br I lay there in silence-a spirit came o'er me; br Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw: br Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before me, br And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe. br I view'd the dread beings around us that hover, br Though veil'd by the mists of mortality's breath; br And I call'd upon darkness the vision to cover, br For a strife was within me of madness and death. br br I saw them-the powers of the wind and the ocean, br The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms; br Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion, br I felt their dim presence,-but knew not their forms ! br I saw them-the mighty of ages departed- br The dead were around me that night on the hill: br From their eyes, as they pass'd, a cold radiance they darted,- br There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood was chill.