Ere to his haunt, the stagnant marsh,The harbinger of tempest flies,Will call the raven, croaking harsh,From eastern skies.Farewell!—and wheresoe'er you go,My Galatea, think of me:Let lefthand pie and roving crowStill leave you free.But mark with what a front of fearOrion lowers. Ah! well I knowHow Hadria glooms, how falsely clearThe west-winds blow.Let foemen's wives and children feelThe gathering south-wind's angry roar,The black wave's crash, the thunder-peal,The quivering shore.So to the bull Europa gaveHer beauteous form, and when she sawThe monstrous deep, the yawning grave,Grew pale with awe.