They are scattered like foam on the torrent; and where 115
The wind has burst out through the chasm, from the air
Of clear morning the beams of the sunrise flow in,
Unimpeded, keen, golden, and crystalline,
Banded armies of light and of air; at one gate
They encounter, but interpenetrate. 120
And that breach in the tempest is widening away,
And the caverns of cloud are torn up by the day,
And the fierce winds are sinking with weary wings,
Lulled by the motion and murmurings
And the long glassy heave of the rocking sea, 125
And overhead glorious, but dreadful to see,
The wrecks of the tempest, like vapours of gold,
Are consuming in sunrise.  The heaped waves behold
The deep calm of blue Heaven dilating above,
And, like passions made still by the presence of Love, 130
Beneath the clear surface reflecting it slide
Tremulous with soft influence; extending its tide
From the Andes to Atlas, round mountain and isle,
Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved with Heaven’s azure smile,
The wide world of waters is vibrating.  Where 135
Is the ship?  On the verge of the wave where it lay
One tiger is mingled in ghastly affray
With a sea-snake.  The foam and the smoke of the battle
Stain the clear air with sunbows; the jar, and the rattle
Of solid bones crushed by the infinite stress 140
Of the snake’s adamantine voluminousness;
And the hum of the hot blood that spouts and rains
Where the gripe of the tiger has wounded the veins
Swollen with rage, strength, and effort; the whirl and the splash
As of some hideous engine whose brazen teeth smash 145
The thin winds and soft waves into thunder; the screams
And hissings crawl fast o’er the smooth ocean-streams,
Each sound like a centipede.  Near this commotion,
A blue shark is hanging within the blue ocean,
The fin-winged tomb of the victor.  The other 150
Is winning his way from the fate of his brother
To his own with the speed of despair.  Lo! a boat
Advances; twelve rowers with the impulse of thought
Urge on the keen keel,—­the brine foams.  At the stern
Three marksmen stand levelling.  Hot bullets burn 155
In the breast of the tiger, which yet bears him on
To his refuge and ruin.  One fragment alone,—­
’Tis dwindling and sinking, ’tis now almost gone,—­
Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the sea. 
With her left hand she grasps it impetuously. 160
With her right she sustains her fair infant.  Death, Fear,
Love, Beauty, are mixed in the atmosphere,
Which trembles and burns with the fervour of dread
Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, and her head,
Like a meteor of light o’er the waters! her child 165
Is yet smiling, and playing, and murmuring; so smiled
The false deep ere the storm.  Like a sister and brother
The child and the ocean still smile on each other,
Whilst—­