“The orient shells that deck the sands.
“And here will I skim o’er the billows so high,
“And laugh at the moon and the dark frowning sky.
“And the Sea-birds, that hover across the wide main,
“Shall sweep with their pinions, the white bounding plain.—
“And the shivering sail shall the fierce tempest meet,
“Like the storm, in the bosom of Poor Marguerite!
“The setting Sun, with golden ray,
“Shall warm my breast, and make me gay.
“The clamours of the roaring Sea