XCV.

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.