O fountain of the golden day!
Could mortal vows but urge thy speed,
How soon before thy vernal ray
Should each unkindly damp recede!
How soon each hovering tempest fly,
That now fermenting loads the sky,
Prompt on our heads to burst amain,
To rend the forest from the steep,
Or thundering o'er the Baltic deep
To whelm the merchant's hopes of gain!