Madly, sadly, the Tempest raves
Through the narrow gullies and hollow caves,
And bursts on the rocks in windy waves,
      Like the billows that roar
      On a gusty shore
Mourning over the mariners’ graves—­
Nay, more like a frantic lamentation
      From a howling set
      Of demons met
To wake a dead relation.

Badly, madly, the vapors fly
Over the dark distracted sky,
  At a pace that no pen can paint! 
Black and vague like the shadows of dreams,
Scudding over the moon that seems,
Shorn of half her usual beams,
  As pale as if she would faint!

      The lightning flashes,
      The thunder crashes,
The trees encounter with horrible clashes,
While rolling up from marsh and bog,
      Rank and rich,
      As from Stygian ditch,
Rises a foul sulphureous fog,
Hinting that Satan himself is agog,—­
  But leaving at once this heroical pitch,
  The night is a very bad night in which
You wouldn’t turn out a dog.

Yet ONE there is abroad in the storm,
      And whenever by chance
      The moon gets a glance,
She spies the Traveller’s lonely form,
  Walking, leaping, striding along,
  As none can do but the super-strong;
And flapping his arms to keep him warm,
  For the breeze from the North is a regular starver,
      And to tell the truth,
      More keen, in sooth,
And cutting than any German carver!

However, no time it is to lag,
And on he scrambles from crag to crag,
Like one determined never to flag—­
      Now weathers a block
      Of jutting rock,
With hardly room for a toe to wag;
But holding on by a timber snag,
That looks like the arm of a friendly hag;
  Then stooping under a drooping bough,
Or leaping over some horrid chasm,
Enough to give any heart a spasm! 
And sinking down a precipice now,
  Keeping his feet the Deuce knows how,
In spots whence all creatures would keep aloof,
Except the Goat, with his cloven hoof,
Who clings to the shallowest ledge as if
He grew like the weed on the face of the cliff! 
So down, still down, the Traveller goes,
Safe as the Chamois amid his snows,
Though fiercer than ever the hurricane blows,
  And round him eddy, with whirl and whizz,
Tornadoes of hail, and sleet, and rain,
Enough to bewilder a weaker brain,
  Or blanch any other visage than his,
Which spite of lightning, thunder and hail,
The blinding sleet and the freezing gale,
      And the horrid abyss,
      If his foot should miss,
Instead of tending at all to pale,
Like cheeks that feel the chill of affright—­
Remains the very reverse of white!

His heart is granite—­his iron nerve
  Feels no convulsive twitches;
And as to his foot, it does not swerve,
Tho’ the Screech-Owls are flitting about him that serve
  For parrots to Brocken Witches!