THE girl who from her father's door
Sees the cold storm-cloud sweep the sea,
Cries, wrestling with her anguish sore,
My love ! my love ! ah, where is he ?
And locks her fears within her breast,
Sickening ; while 'neath the breathless blaze
He lies, and dreams, in broken rest,
Of homely faces, happier days.
But when a calm is on the deep,
And scarcely from the quivering blue,
The waves' soft murmur, half asleep,
Speaks hope that he is well, and true :
The brave ship sinks to rise no more
Beneath the thunderous surge; and he,
A pale corpse floating on the sea,
Or dashed like seaweed on the shore.
