But such the fisher hails
With joy when, after weary hours of rowing,
It swells his spritted sails.
The brave flotilla then, like snowy sprinkles,
Far outward we could trace;
The sight was fair and seemed to have smoothed the wrinkles
From out old Ocean's face.
No envious shadow on the flood descended;
Unflecked, the sky's broad sweep
In silent grandeur with the horizon blended,