Imprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep,
200
And now escaping, when the parent Sun
Flings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct,
Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.
Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen,
Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy net
The wintry Fern, and throws along the Heath
A Hoary Garment, nor less fair than Spring
Drops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail.