Round about the Round-O 1880. Arbroath's yesteryear in print

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POEM - 015
'The Stalactite Cave'
W. C. Sturoc


IN the lone hidden depths of earth,
Long shut from mortal eye,
Within the dome of yonder cave
What founts of beauty lie !
As blending, while pending,
The clustering masses hing,
The badges of ages
Long lost to Time's dark wing.

Here juts a ponderous quilted mass
From out the craggy steep,
And there the petrifaction wends
As snakes deceitful creep :
Each feature in Nature
Such harmony displays—
Though crude like and rude like,
It wakes our meed of praise.

Aloft, from either side depend
Unnumbered forms and strange,
And all the hoary handiwork
Of long successive change !
For dropping, ne'er stopping,
Adown each grotesque block
The water doth spatter
From out the creviced rock.

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The torch's light had faded out,
And, standing there alone,
I gazed upon the wondrous scene,
And heard old Ocean's moan ;
As towering, and roaring,
The foamy billows dash,
Till sounding, rebounding,
Within the cave they crash.

The frowning sky, with lurid scowl,
Met ocean's kindred blue,
And cast within the murky cave
An awful, solemn hue ;
Yet gazing, amazing,
I there enchanted stood,
Deep wondering, and pondering,
On all I felt and viewed.
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