Out-stretched afar—a dreary waste
Of tide lands low, where ebb and flow
The waters, that with reckless haste
Have crept inland, and silent stand
In reedy pools, or tiny lakes.
There skimming low, now swift, now slow,
The sea-bird pauses oft and takes
A plunge among the luckless throng
That here have found a quiet home;
Or rising there, in lofty air,