Lo! in storms, the triple-headed 
 Hill, whose dreaded 
Bases battle with the seas, 
Looms across fierce widths of fleeting 
 Waters beating 
Evermore on roaring leas! 
Arakoon, the black, the lonely! 
 Housed with only 
Cloud and rain-wind, mist and damp; 
Round whose foam-drenched feet and nether 
 Depths, together 
Sullen sprites of thunder tramp! 

There the East hums loud and surly, 
 Late and early, 
Through the chasms and the caves, 
And across the naked verges 
 Leap the surges! 
White and wailing waifs of waves. 

Day by day the sea-fogs gathered? 
 Tempest-fathered? 
Pitch their tents on yonder peak, 
Yellow drifts and fragments lying 
 Where the flying 
Torrents chafe the cloven creek! 

And at nightfall, when the driven 
 Bolts of heaven 
Smite the rock and break the bluff, 
Thither troop the elves whose home is 
 Where the foam is, 
And the echo and the clough. 

Ever girt about with noises, 
 Stormy voices, 
And the salt breath of the Strait, 
Stands the steadfast Mountain Giant, 
 Grim, reliant, 
Dark as Death, and firm as Fate. 

So when trouble treads, like thunder, 
 Weak men under? 
Treads and breaks the thews of these? 
Set thyself to bear it bravely, 
 Greatly, gravely, 
Like the hill in yonder seas; 

Since the wrestling and endurance 
 Give assurance 
To the faint at bay with pain, 
That no soul to strong endeavour 
 Yoked for ever, 
Works against the tide in vain.