190
As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul,
The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide,
Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is now
The awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's Grave
Rolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream,
That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest,
Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead,
Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough;
Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of Light