Classic Poem

O hoary Hills, though ye look aged, ye
Are but the children of a latter time —
Methinks I see ye in that hour sublime
When from the hissing cauldron of the Sea
Ye were upheaven, while so terribly
The Clouds boiled, and the Lightning scorched ye bare.
Wild, new-born, blind, Titans in agony,
Ye glared at heaven through folds of fiery hair! ...
Then, in an instant, while ye trembled thus
A Hand from heaven, while and luminous,
Pass'd o'er your brows, and husht your fiery breath.
Lo! one by one the still Stars gather'd round,
The great Deep glass'd itself, and with no sound
A cold Snow fell, and all was still as death.