decks

Our masts are bills of doves,

Our decks fine gold;

Our ropes are dead maids' hair,

Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent,

The decks with blood are red,

The arrows of death are sped,

Here, the rose that decks thy door,

Here, the thorn that spreads thy bow’r,

Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled face

Decks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride.

Thou hast derived this mighty blessing down,

And fixed the fairest gem that decks the imperial crown:

Not faction, when it shook thy regal seat,

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.

And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,

And art exhausts profusion round,

Pleas'd with their notes Sol sheds benign his ray,

And double radiance decks the face of day.