ME is thy prospect, thou proud-rolling Ocean, And Fancy surveys thee with solemn delight;
When thy mountainous billows are wild in commotion, And the tempest is roused by the spirits of night !
When the moon-beams thro' winter-clouds faintly appearing, At intervals gleam on the dark-swelling wave;
And the mariner, dubious, now hoping, now fearing, May hear the stern Genius of hurricanes rave !
But now, when thine anger has long been subsiding, And the tempest has folded the might of its wing;
How clear is thy surface, in loveliness gliding, For April has opened the portals of spring !
Now soft on thy bosom the orient is beaming, And tremulous breezes are waving thy breast;
On thy mirror the clouds and the shadows are streaming, And morning and glory the picture have drest !
No gale but the balmy Favonian is blowing, In coral-caves resting, the winds are asleep;
And, rich in the sun-beam, yon pendants are glowing, That tinge with their colours the silvery deep !
Yet smile or be dreadful, thou still-changing Ocean, Tremendous or lovely, resistless or still;
I view thee adoring, with hallow'd emotion, The Power that can hush or arouse thee at will !
