Black from the stroak, above, the mountain-pine,
A leaning shatter'd trunk, stands scath'd to heaven,
The talk of future ages; and, below,
A lifeless groupe the blasted cattle lie:
Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look,
They wore alive, and ruminating still,
In fancy's eye; and there the frowning bull,
And ox half-rais'd. A little further, burns
The guiltless cottage; and the haughty dome
Stoops to the base. In one immediate flash,
The forest falls; or, flaming out, displays
The savage-hunts, unpierc'd by day before,
Scar'd is the mountain's brow; and from, the cliff
Tumbles the smitten rock. The desart shakes,
And gleams, and grumbles, thro' his deepest dens.