In prospect wide

The boundless tide!

Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar; Without a breeze

The curling seas

Dance on in measure to the shore.

Who sings the source

Of wealth and force?
Vast field of commerce and big war;
Where wonders dwell!

Where terrors swell!

And Neptune thunders from his car?

Where? where are they,

Whom Pæan's ray

Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave?-
What! none aspire?—

I snatch the lyre,

And plunge into the foaming wave.

The wave resounds!

The rock rebounds!

The Nereids to my song reply!
I lead the choir,

And they conspire,

With voice and shell, to lift it high.

They spread in air

Their bosoms fair,

Their verdant tresses pour behind;

The billows beat

With nimble feet,

With notes triumphant swell the wind.

Who love the shore,

Let those adore

The god Apollo, and his Nine,
Parnassus' hill,

And Orpheus' skill:

But let Arion's harp be mine.

The main the main!

Is Britain's reign;

Her strength, her glory, is her fleet; The main! the main!

Be Britons' strain;

As triton's strong, as siren's sweet.

Through Nature wide

Is nought descried

So rich in pleasure or surprise;
When all serene,

How sweet the scene!

How dreadful when the billows rise:

And storms deface
The fluid glass,

In which erewhile Britannia fair
Look'd down with pride,

Like Ocean's bride,

Adjusting her majestic air!

When tempests cease,

And, hush'd in peace,

The flatten'd surges smoothly spread,

Deep silence keep,

And seem to sleep

Recumbent on their oozy bed;

With what a trance
The level glance,

Unbroken, shoots along the seas!
Which tempt from shore

The painted oar;

And every canvass courts the breeze!

When rushes forth

The frowning North

On blackening billows, with what dread
My shuddering soul

Beholds them roll,

And hears their roarings o'er my head!

With terror mark
Yon flying bark!

Now centre-deep descend the brave;
Now, toss'd on high,

It takes the sky,

A feather on the towering wave!

Now spins around

In whirls profound;

Now whelm'd, now pendent near the clouds; Now stunn'd, it reels

Midst thunder's peals,

And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds,

All ether burns!

Chaos returns!

And blends, once more, the seas and skies: No space between

Thy bosom green,

O deep! and the blue concave, lies.

The northern blast,

The shatter'd mast,

The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,
The breaking spout,

The stars gone out,

The boiling strait, the monster's shock ;

Let others fear :

To Britain dear

Whate'er promotes her daring claim;
Those terrors charm,

Which keep her warm

In chase of honest gain or fame.

The stars are bright

To cheer the night,

And shed through shadows temper'd fire! And Phoebus flames

With burnish'd beams,

Which some adore, and all admire.

Are then the seas

Outshone by these?

Bright Thetys! thou art not outshone;
With kinder beams,

And softer gleams,

Thy bosom wears them as thy own.

There, set in green,

Gold stars are seen,

A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap;
And when the Sun

His race has run,

He falls enamour'd in thy lap.