At the Isle of Wight. 1793

How sweet the walk along the woody steep
When all the summer seas are charmed to sleep;
While on the distant sands the tide retires
Its last faint murmur on the ear expires;
The setting sun [ ] his growing round
On the low promontory--purple bound
For many a league a line of gold extends,
Now lessened half his glancing disc de[scends]
The watry sands athwart the [ ? ]
Flush [ ] sudden [ ? ] not [ ]
While anchored vessels scattered fa[r] [ ]
Darken with shadowy hulks [ ]
O'er earth o'er air and oce[an] [ ]
Tranquillity extends her [ ]
But hark from yon proud fleet in peal profound
Thunders the sunset cannon; at the sound
The star of life appears to set in blood,
And ocean shudders in offended mood,
Deepening with moral gloom his angry flood.
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