From the Greek of Moschus

When winds that move not its calm surface sweep

The azure sea, I love the land no more;

The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep

Tempt my unquiet mind. — But when the roar

Of Ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam

Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst,

I turn from the drear aspect to the home

Of Earth and its deep woods, where, interspersed,

When winds blow loud, pines make sweet melody.

Whose house is some lone bark, whose toil the sea,

Whose prey the wandering fish, an evil lot

Has chosen. — But I my languid limbs will fling

Beneath the plane, where the brook's murmuring

Moves the calm spirit, but disturbs it not.