Away, away she plunges,
With her white sails o’er her spread,
Like the sheety clouds that gather
On some great hill’s piny head.
Still away she plunges rampant,
Like a lion roused to wrath,
And the late proud wave lies humbled
In the foam-track of her path.
“Yet ho! My gallant sailors,
Wear her head from off the land!
As his steed obeys the Arab,
How she feels the steering hand!
And the deep in her wide dwelling,
Her wild spouse the gipsy wind;
Like a soul from earth departing,
So she leaves the coast behind.
Charles Harpur
