There’s grandeur in this sounding storm,
That drives the hurrying clouds along,
That on each other seem to throng,
And mix in many a varied form;
While bursting now and then between,
The moon’s dim misty orb is seen,
And casts faint glimpses on the green.
Beneath the blasts the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies,
And wide the shower of foliage flies;
The lake’s black waves in tumult blend,
Revolving o’er and o’er and 0’er,
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.
The sight sublime enwraps my thought,
And swift along the past it strays,
And much of strange event surveys,
What history’s faithful tongue has taught,
Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill,
Of ill to good, or good to ill.
But can my soul the scene enjoy,
That rends another’s breast with pain?
O hapless he who, near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy!
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend!
This scene how rich from Thames’s side,
While evening suns their amber beam,
Spread o’er the glossy-surfaced tide,
And midst the masts and cordage gleam;
Blaze on the roofs with turrets crowned,
And gild green pastures stretched around,
And gild the slope of that high ground,
Whose cornfields bright the prospect bound.
The white sails glide along the shore,
Red streamers on the breezes play,
The boatmen ply the dashing oar,
And wide their various freight convey;
Some, Neptune’s hardy thoughtless train,
And some, the careful sons of gain,
And some, the enamoured nymph and swain,
Listening to music’s soothing strain.
But there, while these the sight allure,
Still fancy wings her flight away
To woods recluse, and vales obscure,
And streams that solitary stray,
To view the pinegrove on the hill,
The rocks that trickling springs distill,
The meads that quivering aspens fill,
Or alders crowding o’er the rill.
And where the trees unfold their bloom,
And where the banks their foliage bear;
And all effuse a rich perfume,
That hovers in the soft calm air;
The hedgerow path to wind along,
To hear the bleating, fleecy throng,
To hear the skylark’s airy song,
And throstle’s note so clear and strong.
But say, if there our steps were brought,
Would these their power to please retain;
Say, would not restless, roving thought
Turn back to busy scenes again;
O strange formation of the mind!
Still though the present fair we find,
Still towards the absent thus inclined,
Thus fixed on objects left behind!
Renowned Britannia! loved parental land!
Regard thy welfare with a watchful eye!
Whene’er the weight of want’s afflicting hand
Wakes in thy vales the poor’s persuasive cry—
When wealth enormous sets the oppressor high,
When bribes thy ductile senators’ command,
And slaves in office freeman’s rights withstand,
Then mourn, for then thy fate approacheth nigh!
Not from perfidious Gaul or haughty Spain,
Nor all the neighbouring nations of the main,
Though leagued in war tremendous round thy shore—
But from thyself thy ruin must proceed!
Nor boast thy power! for know it is decreed,
Thy freedom lost, thy power shall be no more!