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"Dear oak-tree, you are riven by the storm-king's thunderbolt!" cried the ivy, in anguish. "Ay," said the oak-tree, feebly, "my end has come; see, I am shattered and helpless." "But I am unhurt," remonstrated the ivy, "and I will bind up your wounds and nurse you back to health and vigor."
The storm-king himself rode upon the blast; his horses breathed flames, and his chariot trailed through the air like a serpent of fire. The ash fell before the violence of the storm-king's fury, and the cedars groaning fell, and the hemlocks and the pines; but the oak-tree alone quailed not.
Haste thee while thy heart is burning, While thine eyes have strength to see; Hark, behind yon blackening cloud-bank, To the Storm-King's minstrelsy! See, he stamps upon the mountains, And he leaps the valleys high! Now he smites his forest harp-strings, And he sounds his thunder-cry: Waken, lift ye up, ye creatures, Sing the song, each living thing!
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