Ships of oak, with storm-sails riven,
From thy plunging combers reel,
Like the war-horse backward driven,
From the serried ranks of steel.
Morn in smiles hath ne’er ascended
O’er thy summit stark and drear;
Day and night are dimly blended
In thy sunless atmosphere.
Cape of clouds, of hail, and thunder,
Sinking o’er the ocean’s swell,