The winds abate; calm is the crested main,
The goodly craft rides on in peace again.
Touch, touch the thread, which stretches land and sea;
Command it bear the news, with accuracy,
Through channels, rivers, lakes, and rills;
Through England’s vales, o’er Scotland’s hills;
Through Ireland’s uplands, creeks, and dells,—
“Ere proud Aurora flush’d the purple East,
The Danish bark was safe, and sleeps at rest.”
Sound, sound the cymbal, sound the silver horn;