To Neptune

God of the mighty deep! wherever now
The waves beneath thy brazen axles bow —
Whether thy strong, proud steeds, wind-wing'd and wild,
Trample the storm-vex'd waters round them piled,
Swift as the lightning-flashes, that reveal
The quick gyrations of each brazen wheel;
While round and under thee, with hideous roar,
The broad Atlantic, with thy scourging sore,
Thundering, like antique Chaos in his spasms,
In heaving mountains and deep-yawning chasms,
Fluctuates endlessly; while, through the gloom,
Their glossy sides and thick manes fleck'd with foam,
Career thy steeds, neighing with frantic glee
In fierce response to the tumultuous sea, —
Whether thy coursers now career below,
Where, amid storm-wrecks, hoary sea-plants grow,
Broad-leaved, and fanning with a ceaseless motion
The pale, cold tenants of the abysmal ocean —
O, come! our altars waiting for thee stand,
Smoking with incense on the level strand!
Perhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam
Upon some quiet plain; no wind-toss'd foam
Is now upon their limbs, but leisurely
They tread with silver feet the sleeping sea,
Fanning the waves with slowly-floating manes,
Like mist in sunlight; haply, silver strains
From clamorous trumpets round thy chariot ring,
And green-robed sea-gods unto thee, their king,
Chant, loud in praise: Apollo now doth gaze
With loving looks upon thee, and his rays
Light up thy steeds' wild eyes: a pleasant warmth
Is felt upon the sea, where fierce, cold storm
Has just been rushing, and the noisy winds,
That Aeolus now within their prison binds,
Flying with misty wings: perhaps, below
Thou liest in green caves, where bright things glow
With myriad colours — many a monster cumbers
The sand a-near thee, while old Triton slumbers
As idly as his wont, and bright eyes peep
Upon thee every way, as thou dost sleep.
Perhaps thou liest on some Indian isle,
Under a waving tree, where many a mile
Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands
Heap'd up in many shapes by naiads' hands,
And, blushing as the waves come rippling on,
Shaking the sunlight from them as they run
And curl upon the beach — like molten gold
Thick-set with jewellery most rare and old —
And sea-nymphs sit, and, with small, delicate shells,
Make thee sweet melody: as in deep dells
We hear, of summer nights, by fairies made,
The while they dance within some quiet shade,
Sounding their silver flutes most low and sweet,
In strange but beautiful tunes, that their light feet
May dance upon the bright and misty dew
In better time: all wanton airs that blew
But lately over spice trees, now are here,
Waving their wings, all odour-laden, near
The bright and laughing sea. O, wilt thou rise,
And come with them to our new sacrifice!