Nor heard the sharp, grim shriek of wind,

That caught and tossed his cap away.

His eyes despairingly were fixed

On one far spot, where mountain-high

From deep abyss the waters climbed,

And, dashing down, before them bore

The floating wrecks of waste and spoil.

Great God! 'twas where they strove most fierce,

The central point of their blind force,

On brink of widely swollen gulf,

An old house stood, with willow-tree

Before and wooden fence, the home

Of widow poor and daughter fair,

His life's one hope.... Or did he rave,

And was it all mere fancy's trick?

Or is our life an empty dream,

The toy and sport of jesting fate?...

And there, as bound by some strong spell,

Or chained to marbled lion's back,

He sate, and could not stir. Around

Was water, water, nothing else.

And all the while, face turned from him,

Supreme on safe, defiant height,

Above the stir of troubled waves,

Sate, with his royal hand outstretched,

The giant on his steed of bronze.

THE BRONZE HORSEMAN. CANTO THE SECOND.

At length, with work of ruin tired,

Her mutiny the Neva ceased,

And to her former course returned,

In mere revolt her pleasure found,

And careless left her prey behind.

As on an unprotected town

Armed brigands fall, and rob and kill,