But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace,
For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force
Rush'd like a horrid hurricane still adverse to our course—
One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea,
The next is only murmur'd like the humming of a bee!
And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense,
Oh ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!
What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain,
A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain!
What tongue could tell,—what pencil paint,—what pen describe the ride?