95
It likes me still; for I can be
All sympathy of heart, like thee.
Rush forth, in maddest wrath, to rouse
The billows of the deep;
And in the blustering storm, carouse
With fiends that never weep.
Go, tear each fluttering rag away,
Outshriek the mariner,
And hoarsely knell the mermaid's lay
Of death and shipwreck drear;—
What reck I, since I still dare be
Harsh, fierce, and pitiless, like thee?
I love thy storm-shout on the land,
Thy storm-shout on the sea;
Though shapes of death rise on each hand,
Dismay troops not with me.
With iron-cheek, that never showed
The channel of a tear,
With haughty heart, that never bowed
Beneath a dastard fear,
I rush with thee o'er land and sea,
Rejoicing in thy thundering glee.
