Текст оригинала на английском языке
Raised to account for the late return of a Messenger. The sun went down in wrath; The skies foam'd brass, and soon th' unchained wind: Burst from the howling dungeon of the north: And rais'd such high delirium on the main, Such angry clamour; while such boiling waves Flash'd on the peevish eye of moody night, It look'd as if the seas would scald the heavens. Still louder chid the winds, th' enchafed surge Still answered louder; and when the sickly morn Peep'd ruefully through the blotted thick--brow'd east To view the ruinous havock of the dark, The stately towers of Athens seem'd to stand On hollow foam tide--whipt; the ships that lay Scorning the blast within the marble arms Of the sea--chid Portumnus, danc'd like corks Upon th' enraged deep, kicking each other; And some were dash'd to fragments in this fray Against the harbour's rocky chest. The sea So roar'd, so madly raged, so proudly swell'd, As it would thunder full into the streets, And steep the tall Cecropian battlements In foaming brine. The airy citadel, Perch'd like an eagle on a high--brow'd rock, Shook the salt water from its stubborn sides With eager quaking; the Cyclades appear'd Like ducking Cormorants--Such a mutiny Out--clamour'd all tradition, and gain'd belief To ranting prodigies of heretofore. Seven days it storm'd, &c.
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