 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
12
THE MOUNT, ABERGANNY.
They say, that,—in the hour when Jesus died,And shuddering Earth with pity and affright
Shook to her centre at the rueful sight,
And rocks were rent and craters opened wide,—
This craggy fissure in the Skyrrid's side
First bared its entrails to the eclipséd light:
Tradition's gossip tongue hath often lied,—
But haply here may chronicle a fact;
For everywhere the legend hath gone forth,
Flitting from land to land, of shivered rocks,
Of shores disrupted, mountain-ridges crack'd,
Isles torn from continents by earthquake-shocks,—
All, before Record welcomed History's birth,
Yet since Tradition kept the rolls of Earth.
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