Classic Poem

Deep in the hollow bosom of a dell,
Under a towering tree, whose grasping root
Grappled the ground like a huge monster's foot,
We crouched, and let the loose Winds rush to fell
The old wood's pride, with horrid howl and yell,
Such as makes Asian forests quake, when brute
Bellows to brute; or like that taunting hoot
Which mocked at heaven when angels dropt to hell.
That tree was our stout mast; the circling hills
Seemed, to our dizzy eyes, like those green waves
That shroud the mariners' ever-open graves.
Happy were those who kept in domiciles,
And only heard the storm; for 'twas a night
Fearful to such as had less courage than affright!