When on its bosom plays the golden beam.
With headlong speed by bower and cave to sweep;
When flame the waters round with emerald gleam—
When, borne from high by tides and gales, the scream
Of sea-mew softened falls—when bright and gay
The crimson weeds, proud ocean's pendants, stream
From trophied wrecks and rock-towers darkly grey—
Through scenes so strangely fair 'twere pleasant, sure, to stray.
Why this strange thought? If, in that ocean laid.