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 thaThe 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.