The storm is over; yet the ocean sobs
Like a child spent with wailing, though asleep
Restless with dreams of trouble; long and deep
The heavy ground-swell, like the measured throbs
Of a world's heart, jars on the rocks and robs
The windless midnight of what calm should steep
Her realm in dewy silence. The blind leap
Of waves on slippery crags,—as of a mob's
Delirium hurled upon some black bastille,—
Sends up a hollow jar, the sullen roar
Of the receding storm-god's chariot-wheel,
At which the timid shudder as before;
For Parthian Tempest shoots his arrows back,
And makes his slow retreat seem merciless attack!
