Sonnet Ix.

What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat? Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands, And thou dost bear within thine awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet, Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dread noon, Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon, Disturb'd the sleeping giant of the Ind. In the drear silence of the polar span Dost thou repose? or in the solitude Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.