Storms, thunders, waves!

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

Thou say’st an undisputed thing In such a solemn way.

The god looked out upon the troubled deep Waked into tumult from its placid sleep; The flame of anger kindles in his eye As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky; He lifts his head above their awful height And to the distant fleet directs …

Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And silence, like a poultice, comes To heal the blows of sound.