There was no wind to move them,
So the sails were furled and fast,
And the gallant flag above them
Dropped down upon the mast.
All was still as if death's shadow
Were resting on the grave;
And the sea, like some dark meadow,
Had not one rippling wave:
When the sky was rent asunder
With a flood of crimson light,
And one single burst of thunder
Aroused the silent night.
'Twas the signal for their waking!
The angry winds arose,
Like giant captives breaking
The chain of forced repose.
Yet bravely did she greet them,
Those jarring winds and waves;
Ready with scorn to meet them,
They who had been her slaves.
She faced the angry heaven,
Our bold and fair Coquette;
Her graceful sides are riven,
But she will brave it yet.
Like old oak of the forest,
Down comes the thundering mast;
Her need is at the sorest,
She shudders in the blast.
Hark to that low quick gushing!
The hold has sprung a leak;
On their prey the waves are rushing,
The valiant one grows weak.
One cry, and all is quiet,
There is not sight nor sound;
Save the fierce gale at its riot,
And the angry waters round.
The morn may come with weeping,
And the storm may cease to blow;
But the fair Coquette is sleeping
A thousand fathoms low.
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