While The Billy BoilsSearchI stood by the trunk of a giant boxAnd watched the Cataract down the rocksWith ceaseless thunder go.The boiling waters seethed and hissed,And glittering clouds of gleaming mistAscended from below.
The fading glow of the sunlight slantsO'er the frowning cliff which the creeping plants,And moss, and lichens drape.The mist spread forth on the sultry air—'Twas wreathed in figures, some foul, some fair;I traced the form of a spectre thereOf weird and ghastly shape.
There was silence, save for the summer breezeWhich swayed the tops of the mess-mate trees,And the torrent's noisy flow.Awhile the figure seemed to stand,Then waved a shadowy, spectral hand,And pointed down below.
With wild vague thoughts my fancy stroveOf hidden riches, and treasure trove,And gems and jewels bright;And what, thought I, if the omen's true?And thick and fast such fancies grewTill rock, and torrent, and spectre tooAll faded from my sight
I saw the crust of the earth removed—Each wild conjecture fairly proved—I saw, 'twas even so,Peerless gems of price untold,Piles on piles of glittering gold,And the moon-beams glinted clear and coldOn the wealth that lay below.
Ere long men came to that valley "fair;They sought for coal-black diamonds there,And they dragged them from below:And the furnace fires, the hiss of steam,And the whirr of fly-wheel, belt, and beamFulfilled that shadowy, golden dreamI dreamt so long ago.