But scarce perceived, when past the beam it flies,
Swift as the rapid eagle cleaves the skies;
That danger past reflects a feeble joy,
But soon returning fears their hope destroy;
As in th’ Atlantic Ocean, when we find
Some alp of ice driv’n southward by the wind,
The sultry air all sickening pants around,
In deluges of torrid ether drown’d;
Till when the floating isle approaches nigh,
In cooling tides th’ aërial billows fly: