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?
