Along the watery way;
The wave I walk on's mine--the god
I worship is the breeze;
My rudder is my magic rod
Of rule, on isles and seas:
Blow, blow, ye winds, for lordly France,
Or shores of swarthy Spain:
Blow where ye list, of earth I'm lord,
When monarch of the main.

When last upon the surge I rode,
A strong wind on me shot,
And tossed me as I toss my plume,
In battle fierce and hot.
Three days and nights no sun I saw,
Nor gentle star nor moon;
Three feet of foam dash'd o'er my decks,
I sang to see it--soon
The wind fell mute, forth shone the sun,
Broad dimpling smiled the brine;
I leap'd on Ireland's shore, and made
Half of her riches mine.

The wild hawk wets her yellow foot
In blood of serf and king:
Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe,
And helm and cuirass ring;
The foam flies from the charger's flanks,
Like wreaths of winter's snow;
Spears shiver, and the bright shafts start