by: Herman Melville
CONVULSIONS came; and, where the field
Long slept in pastoral green,
A goblin-mountain was upheaved
(Sure the scared sense was all deceived),
Marl-glen and slag-ravine.
The unreserve of Ill was there,
The clinkers in her last retreat;
But, ere the eye could take it in,
Or mind could comprehension win,
It sunk!--and at our feet.
So, then, Solidity's a crust--
The core of fire below;
All may go well for many a year,
But who can think without a fear
Of horrors that happen so?
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