And foam-wreaths skirt a cheerless shore,
Nor bending flowers, nor waving fields,
Nor aught of rest is there for thee;
But rest to thee no pleasure yields;
Then haste and join the stormy sea!
Stream of the lake! of bloody men,
Who thirst the guilty fight to try—
Who seek for joy in mortal pain,
Music in misery's thrilling cry—
Thou tell'st: peace yields no joy to them,