On we fly before the wind.
Steady, so—now let it blow!
Glory guides, and South we go.
Vainly do these gloomy borders,
All their frightful forms oppose;
Vainly frown these frozen warders,
Mailed in sleet, and helmed in snow.
Though, beneath the ghastly skies,
Curdled all the ocean lies,
Lash we up its foam anew—