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- 6224
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.413Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 6155
- text
- SKETCH THIRD.
ROCK RODONDO.
“For they this tight the Rock of vile Reproach,
A dangerous and dreadful place,
To which nor fish nor fowl did once approach,
But yelling meaws with sea-gulls hoars and bace
And cormoyrants with birds of ravenous race,
Which still sit waiting on that dreadful clift.”
“With that the rolling sea resounding soft
In his big base them fitly answered,
And on the Rock, the waves breaking aloft,
A solemn ineane unto them measured.”
“Then he the boteman bad row easily,
And let him heare some part of that rare melody.”
“Suddeinly an innumerable flight
Of harmefull fowles about them fluttering cride,
And with their wicked wings them oft did smight
And sore annoyed, groping in that griesly night.”
“Even all the nation of unfortunate
And fatal birds about them flocked were.”
To go up into a high stone tower is not only a very fine thing in
itself, but the very best mode of gaining a comprehensive view of the
region round about. It is all the better if this tower stand solitary
and alone, like that mysterious Newport one, or else be sole survivor
of some perished castle.
Now, with reference to the Enchanted Isles, we are fortunately supplied
with just such a noble point of observation in a remarkable rock, from
its peculiar figure called of old by the Spaniards, Rock Rodondo, or
Round Rock. Some two hundred and fifty feet high, rising straight from
the sea ten miles from land, with the whole mountainous group to the
south and east. Rock Rodondo occupies, on a large scale, very much the
position which the famous Campanile or detached Bell Tower of St. Mark
does with respect to the tangled group of hoary edifices around it.
Ere ascending, however, to gaze abroad upon the Encantadas, this
sea-tower itself claims attention. It is visible at the distance of
thirty miles; and, fully participating in that enchantment which
pervades the group, when first seen afar invariably is mistaken for a
sail. Four leagues away, of a golden, hazy noon, it seems some Spanish
Admiral’s ship, stacked up with glittering canvas. Sail ho! Sail ho!
Sail ho! from all three masts. But coming nigh, the enchanted frigate
is transformed apace into a craggy keep.
My first visit to the spot was made in the gray of the morning. With a
view of fishing, we had lowered three boats and pulling some two miles
from our vessel, found ourselves just before dawn of day close under
the moon-shadow of Rodondo. Its aspect was heightened, and yet
softened, by the strange double twilight of the hour. The great full
moon burnt in the low west like a half-spent beacon, casting a soft
mellow tinge upon the sea like that cast by a waning fire of embers
upon a midnight hearth; while along the entire east the invisible sun
sent pallid intimations of his coming. The wind was light; the waves
languid; the stars twinkled with a faint effulgence; all nature seemed
supine with the long night watch, and half-suspended in jaded
expectation of the sun. This was the critical hour to catch Rodondo in
his perfect mood. The twilight was just enough to reveal every striking
point, without tearing away the dim investiture of wonder.
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