Swift o'er the crested surge we row,
Down to the fathomless sea we go.
King of Day! to thee we turn,*[1]
May our course be blest by thee,
Eyes bright as thine in our homes shall burn,
When again our hearths we see,
When the scaly throng, to our skill a prey,
At the feet of our fur clad maids we lay.
Thou art mighty in wrath, devouring tide!
The strong ship loves o'er thy foam to ride,
Her banner by bending clouds carest,
The waves at her keel, and a world in her breast;
Thou biddest the blast of thy billows sweep,
Her tall masts bow to the cleaving deep,
And seal'd in thy cells her proud ones sleep.
Our sails are as chaff, when the tempest raves,
And our boat a speck on the mountain waves:
Yet we pour not to thee, the imploring strain,
We sooth not thine anger, relentless Main!
Libation we pour not, nor vow, nor prayer,
Our hope is in thee,
God of the Sea!
The deep is thy path, and the soul thy care.
- ↑ * The Icelanders have a custom of turning their boat towards the sun when they embark on a fishing excursion.
