A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes, He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun With wings that fling the light, and sinks at times To ride in triumph where the tall waves run. The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon. He floats above, a moment hangs in air Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn. When wild, strong billows reach in fiercest might To clutch the gems that fire the midnight sky, When anger turns the ocean's face to white, Then sounds afar his shrill, exultant cry. Bold haunter of the deep! Of thy swift flights What of them all brings keenest joy to thee— To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea? |