poems.
127
The mothers hush'd their babes to sleep,
And sought the pillow of repose;
But late at night upon the deep
A great and mighty tempest rose.
And like a leaf, each stately sail,
Each trembling mast, was torn away,
And, by the howling, fearful gale.
The ship was driven from her way.
And sought the pillow of repose;
But late at night upon the deep
A great and mighty tempest rose.
And like a leaf, each stately sail,
Each trembling mast, was torn away,
And, by the howling, fearful gale.
The ship was driven from her way.
But, lo, the sun in glory bright
Shines cloudless o'er the hoarse black sea:
Farewell, the horrors of the night;
Poor wand'rers, where may they now be?
See, see! on high they touch the cloud
That mingles with the stormy wave;—
And now the waters are their shroud,
The ocean's bosom too their grave.
Shines cloudless o'er the hoarse black sea:
Farewell, the horrors of the night;
Poor wand'rers, where may they now be?
See, see! on high they touch the cloud
That mingles with the stormy wave;—
And now the waters are their shroud,
The ocean's bosom too their grave.
THE DYING GIRL TO HER LOVER.
Oh, will you weep when o'er my grave
The bending willows gentle wave,
And I am low?
Or will you careless pass me by?
Will you not breathe one gentle sigh,
One thought bestow?
The bending willows gentle wave,
And I am low?
Or will you careless pass me by?
Will you not breathe one gentle sigh,
One thought bestow?
