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Poem	("Quels sont ces bruits sourds?") {XXIV., July 17, 1836.} Hark to that solemn sound! It steals towards the strand.— Whose is that voice profound Which mourns the swallowed land, With moans, Or groans, New threats of ruin close at hand? It is Triton—the storm to scorn Who doth wind his sonorous horn. How thick the rain to-night! And all along the coast The sky shows naught of light Is it a storm, my host? Too soon The boon Of pleasant weather will be lost Yes, 'tis Triton, etc. Are seamen on that speck Afar in deepening dark? Is that a splitting deck Of some ill-fated bark? Fend harm! Send calm! O Venus! show thy starry spark! Though 'tis Triton, etc. The thousand-toothèd gale,— Adventurers too bold!— Rips up your toughest sail And tears your anchor-hold. You forge Through surge, To be in rending breakers rolled. While old Triton, etc. Do sailors stare this way, Cramped on the Needle's sheaf, To hail the sudden ray Which promises relief? Then, bright; Shine, light! Of hope upon the beacon reef! Though 'tis Triton, etc.
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