Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In th’ ocean’s bosom unespy’d, 
From a small boat, that row’d along, 
The list’ning winds received this song. 
   ‘What should we do but sing his praise 
That led us through the wat’ry maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own? 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms, and prelates’ rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels ev’rything, 
And sends the fowls to us in care, 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night; 
And does in the pom’granates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet 
And throws the melons at our feet, 
But apples plants of such a price, 
No trees could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars, chosen by His hand, 
From Lebanon, He stores the land.
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast, 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple, where to sound His name. 
Oh let our voice His praise exalt, 
Till it arrive at heaven’s vault; 
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.’
   Thus sung they, in the English boat 
An holy and a cheerful note, 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time.