To a Forgotten Triton

Triumphant wielder of the wreathèd horns,
Breeder and brewer of small midland storms,
Lord of a land-locked sea;
Plunged in this grey tumultuous brine,
What fears, what thoughts, we ask, were thine,
What dreams would visit thee?

A minnow down some wild mill-race,
A leaf, gale-tossed from place to place,
Might fitly image thee;
Some mild seer of the ancient world,
Into our vexed thought-maelstrom hurled,
Would hear this deafening sea.