Old sea, old king; your crowns have crashed ashore;
The barren crags your current cut remain
But glisten with your sea-born sheen no more.
You dried; and so you died. But ramble on,
And outward from your idle isle pour.
Let your sons, the lazing lakes, which drain
Through settled nooks and lettered levees, stay
While you, the king of cursory kings, stay gone:
Around them on all shores but gone away.
Well supplied with mighty tide, you swill,
And drunk with fight or wine's delight, you sway,
But rocked too long, your pate grows hoary white;
Stirred too strong, a crest is crowned with foam.
Treat every coast of man with spite, and spill
From cliff to cliff; in travel, find a home.
In death, secure an ending to your plight;
In name, if not in life, forever roam.