’Mid the dim midnight of the sounding storm
Aloft ’twill rear the terrors of its form;
In vain the roaring surges round it break,
In vain the winds their uncurbed vengeance wreak,
Throned on such pow’rs, surrounded by the sea,
The circling waves have scarce one fear for thee.
Thou know’st not ills that towns besieged await,
When hostile columns thunder at the gate;
Pitch their dread camp with fatal ramparts round,
And with fierce arms enclose the leaguered ground.