I peer about, but nothing greeteth me,
Naught save the ship, the clouds, the waves' abyss.
The crocodile which rushes from the deeps ;
The flood foams gray ; the whirling waters reel.
Now like its prey whereon at last it sweeps,
The ocean swallows up the vessel's keel.
The billows rage — exult, oh soul of mine,
Soon sbalt thoa enter the Lord's sacred shrine !
III.
TO THE WEST WIND.
O West, how fragrant breathes thy gentle air.
Spikenard and aloes on thy piniona glide.
Thou blow'st from spicy chambers, not from there
Where angry winds and tempests fierce abide.
As on a bird's wings thou dost waft me home,
Sweet as a bundle of rich myrrh to me.
And after thee yearn all the thongs that roam
And furrow with light keel the Tolling sea.
Desert her not — our ship — bide with her oft,
When the day sinks and in the morning light.
Smooth thou the deeps and make the billows soft.
Nor rest save at our goal, the sacred height.
Chide thou the East that chafes the raging flood,
And swells the towering surges wild and rude.
What can I do, the elements' poor slave ?
Now do they hold me fast, now leave me free ;
Cling to the Lord, my soul, for He will save,
Who caused the mountains and the winds to be.
