He shook his trident and with aweful frown,
Swore ’twas presumption in the haughty town,
Now laughs to see it standing useless o’re,
Whilst ice has made it one continued shore,
Under whose spreading roof he silent glides
And ebbs, and hews, unheard, unseen, his tides.
Greenland, Muscovy, sure their cold have lent,
And all their frigid blasts have hither sent,
Whilst Boreas with his keenest breath has blown,
To make our winter cold as is there own: