Wanders with a fitful flow
As the billow sinks or swells.
Now, to faintest whispers hushing,
Now, in louder cadence gushing,
Wakens from their pleasant sleep
All the tuneful Nereid-throng,
Till their notes of wreathed song
Float in magic streams along,
Chanting joyaunce through the deep.

Chance or change,--the clouds of time--
Sorrow,--winter storm, or blight,
Comes not near our peaceful clime;
Nor the strife of day with night.
Death, who walks the earth in riot,
Stirs not our primeval quiet:
Scarce his distant rage we know
From the dreary things of clay,
Slain, alas! in ocean's play,
Whom the sea-maids shroud and lay
In the silent caves below.

Fond! to deem we count it pride
Thus to deck the fair of earth!
We, whose beauty-peopled tide
Gave the foam-born goddess birth!
Her, whose glory's radiant fulness.
All too bright for mortal dulness,
Sparkles in a lovelier star!
Are not Ocean's shady places