( A Retrospect)

Convulsions came; and, where the field



Long slept in pastoral green,



A goblin-mountain was upheaved



(Sure the scared sense was all deceived),



Marl-glen and slag-ravine.







The unreserve of Ill was there,



The clinkers in her last retreat;



But, ere the eye could take it in,



Or mind could comprehension win,



It sunk!—and at our feet.







So, then, Solidity’s a crust—



The core of fire below;



all may go well for many a year,



But who can think without a fear



Of horrors that happen so?





