Classic Poem

A mountain chain—each snow-bathed peak
Craggy and shapeful, drinks the mist.
Below the cloud-mark, eagles seek
Their eyries by the sleet-winds kisst.

Mighty Titanic towers of rock,
Huge Lylacqs raised by giant hands
To climb to heaven, and to mock
The power of God on holy strands

Lay crushed and sundered, overturned,
Chaos of granite, earth and stone:
Vast grave preadamite, well earned
For those who shaped it for a throne.

And when Night, hushful, inks the chain
With darkness, then the torrents' roar
Soundeth like giant lungs in pain,
Cursing their God for sins of yore.

The souls and spirits of a race
Damned for all ages suffer there,
And caged in stone, bereft of grace,
Await their judgment with despair.