But on the liquid marble sleeps.
Sick of a Calm the sailor lies,
And views the still, reflecting seas;
Or, whistling to the burning skies,
He hopes to wake the slumbering breeze. 20
The silent noon, the solemn night,
The same dull round of thoughts excite;
Till, tired of the revolving train,
He wishes for the Storm again.
Thus, when I felt the force of Love,