screaming o'er the tattered sail; And ev'ry ship were tempest toss'd,-- Its rudder gone,--its pilot lost; And no kind ray of light were giv'n, To cheer them, from the vault of heav'n, Save the vivid lightning's flash,-- Pealing the deep ton'd thunder crash, Glancing upon the tow'ring wave, Above the seaman's yawning grave;-- Glaring into that dark abyss, Where hideous monsters dart and hiss, And ship wreck'd seamen, far from home. Toss amid the briny foam; Till the proud wave, with one stern sweep, Buries the secrets of the deep; Revealing far, on upper land, A lawless bandits' wand'ring band, With sword and rapier, stain'd with blood, Still thirsting for the crimson flood; They show no mercy on their kind, But kill or plunder all they find. Then dies the flash, as ocean's moan Sends back a low, sepulchral groan, Leaving all nature dark and still, As midnight sleeping on the hill, While all around unearthly seems, As frightened Hecate's spectral dreams; Till bubbling, gushing through each vein, The frenzied current turns again,-- My hurrying pulses faster play, And conjure up the dread array,-- Glaring spectres, side by side, In mould'ring shrouds around me glide; Death's damp wreaths are round their hair, And coffin worms hold revel there. Gibb'ring, they come from ancient tombs, Stealing from low sepulchral glooms, From vault and charnel house they rise, With bloodless cheek, and hollow eyes, They point the finger,--shake the head, And hold strange converse round my bed; Together there, in council meet, With coffin, pall and winding sheet,-- Seem waiting, with their dread array, To bear my lifeless form away. They stand with mattock, and with spade,-- On me their icy hands are laid, While noisome vapors round me spread, Bespeak the precincts of the dead. E'en then, sweet bird, at such an hour, When reason almost resigns her power; Thy pleasant notes have magic art, To soothe my palpitating heart; They come as wild, as free, as clear, As though no pain or woe were near.

'Tis true, that friendship's hand is kind, My aching brow and heart to bind; Beside my bed a husband stands, And anxious children press my hands; A gentle mother acts her part, And sisters, with each winning art; Father and brothers waiting still, The slightest mandate of my will; Each anxious, who shall earliest prove, The tender gushings of their love.

Sometimes there comes a vision fair, Of waving groves, and balmy air, Of placid skies, serene and mild, As slumber stealing o'er a child; Where breezes hushed to deep repose, Sleep in the bosom of the rose, And scarcely lift their fragile wing, One dew-drop from the flower to fling; But leave it for the sun's warm ray, To kiss the pearly 

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