Sir Aubrey de Vere (1788–1846)

THE WATERS—O the waters!—wild and glooming,

Beneath the stormy pall that shrouds the sky,

On, through the deep’ning mist more darkly looming,

Plumed with the pallid foam funereally,

Onward, like death, they come, the rocks entombing!

Nor thunder-knell is needful from on high;

Nor sound of signal gun, momently booming

O’er the disastrous deep; nor seaman’s cry!

And yet, if aught were wanting, manifold

Mementoes haunt those reefs; how that proud Host

Of Spain and Rome so smitten were of old,

By God’s decree, along this fatal coast,

And over all their purple and their gold,

Mitre and helm and harp, the avenging waters rolled!