Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,

The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand:

For here, not one, but many, make their play,

And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,

Flashing and cast around: of all the band,

The brightest through these parted hills hath forked

His lightnings,—as if he did understand,

That in such gaps as Desolation worked,

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.