All, more or less, against each other dash.
To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driven,
And suffering more from folly, than from fate.
Ocean! thou dreadful and tumultuous home
Of dangers, at eternal war with man!
Death’s capital, where most he domineers, 170
With all his chosen terrors frowning round,
(Though lately feasted high at Albion’s cost,)[43]
Wide-opening, and loud roaring still for more!
Too faithful mirror! how dost thou reflect