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George Gordon Byron - Childe Harold`s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV.
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Such as creation`s dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

CLXXXIII 
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty`s form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, -- 
Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving -- boundless, endless, and sublime, 
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 goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

CLXXXIV 
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 wanton`d 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. 

CLXXXV 
My task is done, my song hath ceased, my theme 
Has died into an echo; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish`d which hath lit 
My midnight lamp -- and what is writ, is writ; 
Would it were worthier! but I am not now 
That which I have been -- and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me -- and the glow 
Which, in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 

CLXXXVI 
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been -- 
A sound which makes us linger; -- yet -- farewell! 
Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; 
Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain 
If such there were -- with you, the moral of his strain.
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