Shall I rebuke thee,
Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth!
Yet didst thou n'er restore my fainting health?— Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore Full break, last link between my land and me?— My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!
