Then proudly he rides o’er the boiling tides,
As they eddy around the rocks;
Whilst their awful roar on the wreck-strewn shore,
The hollow-voiced thunder mocks.
When ocean and cloud like a woven shroud,
Are all mingled into one,
Amidst the dense spray he pursues his way,
And hurries triumphant on.
The terrible form of the king of storm,
Few mortal eyes have seen;