Lit boundless by the fire-fly—all the smells
Of tropic fruits that will regale her—all
The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting
Varieties of life she has to greet,
Come swarming o’er the meditative mind.
True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has
His darker hints; but where’s the element
That chequers not its usefulness to man.
With casual terror? Scathes not Earth sometimes
Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes