Those clouds, whose dyes
Adorn the skies,
That silver snow, that pearly rain,
Has Phoebus stole
To grace the pole,
The plunder of th' invaded main!
The gaudy bow,
Whose colours glow,
Whose arch with so much skill is bent,
To Phoebus' ray,
Which paints so gay,
By thee the wat'ry woof was lent.
In chambers deep,
Where waters sleep,
What unknown treasures pave the floor!
The pearl, in rows,
Pale lustre throws;
The wealth immense, which storms devour.
From Indian mines,
With proud designs,
The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore;
The tempests rise,
And seize the prize,
And toss him breathless on the shore.
His son complains
In pious strains,
"Ah cruel thirst of gold!" he cries;
Then ploughs the main,
In zeal for gain,
The tears yet swelling in his eyes.
Thou wat'ry vast!
What mounds are cast
To bar thy dreadful flowings o'er!
Thy proudest foam
Must know its home;
But rage of gold disdains a shore.
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