Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee; Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou; Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Calm or convulsed, - in breeze, or gale, or storm, The image of Eternity - the throne Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goes forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers - they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane - as I do here. LORD BYRON. |