Fair rises the morning with rosy beams
Cresting the wave-tips with golden gleams.
The tempest has lulled, as a child at rest
Sobbing to sleep on its mother's breast.
Birds with their snow-white plumage fair
Skim o'er the waters, and sport in the air.
The young waves are laughing along the shore,
Tossing the tangled weeds o'er and o'er,
Caressing the rocks in wild, glad glee,
Triumphant in boundless liberty;
With joy and mirth they sparkle and quiver —
Theirs is not the sound of death's dark river —
The voices of merry children at play:
The fisher boy's song, as he steers his way
O'er the dancing waves in the sunny glow,
Breathes not an echo of dark, wild woe!
Then is it a dream of the silent night
Dispelled forever at morning light,
That here was fought a terrible strife
'Twixt angry billows and fainting life?
Did no one hear the cries of despair
Borne on the moaning midnight air?
None see the dim forms so wildly strain
To grasp their hold of life again?
0 sunlit ocean! and can it be
They fought their agony even with thee?
And canst thou laugh, and murmur and play
O'er golden youth and manhood grey?
I may not help, but weep awhile,
And turn a moment away from thy smile.
Nought does the sorrowful story unfold,
Ocean alone does the secret hold!
Life plays again on the busy shore,
Smoothly the waters ripple once more,
But they smile for the living, and breathe not the tale
Of the sea-bound home of those sleepers pale.
