Cursed be the Norseman who puts trust In mortar and in stone; Who rears a wall, or builds a tower, Or makes on earth his throne; My monarch throne's the willing wave, That bears me on the beach; My sepulchre's the deep sea surge, Where lead shall never reach; My death-song is the howling wind, That bends my quivering mast, Bid England's maidens join the song, I there made orphans last.

Stairs are rocking, walls are shaking: Through the windows' quivering sheen, Are the stormful lightnings seen; Springs the ceiling,thence, below, Lime and mortar rattling flow: