Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men;
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent
The earthquake power of each wild element,
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high
One impulse more of desperate energy;
Might—when the billow’s awful rush was o’er
Which toss’d its wreck upon the storm-beat shore,
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried,
Search’d by remorse, by anguish purified—
Have fix’d, at length, its troubled hopes and fears