Its deep foundations, hissing into foam.
All mountain-rivers, lost, in the wide home
Of thy capacious bosom, ever flow.
Thou frownest, and old Æolus, thy foe,
Skulks to his cavern, mid the gruff complaint
Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint
When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam
Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team
Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along
To bring thee nearer to that golden song