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 Britain's strain;
As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.
Thro' 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 black'ning 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 center-deep descend the brave;
Now, toss'd on high,
It takes the sky,
A feather on the tow'ring wave!
Now spins around
In whirls profound:
Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds;
Now stunn'd, it reels
'Midst thunder's peals:
And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.
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