The morning dawns, a favouring breeze
Bestirs the calm of Tynemouth Bay,
And fills the vessel's swelling sails,
That bears the little web away.
But ere the sun rose high in heav'n,
There thickens round a gathering storm,
And night-fall sees the winds and waves
Sweep o'er that vessel's shatter'd form.
The north wind drifts upon the shore
The corpses of the shipwreck'd crew:
The aged widow's awe-struck eyes
Her proud oppressor lifeless view.
And in his hand—oh, wondrous sight!—
The little web uninjur'd lay,
The same which he with cruel grasp
But yester-eve had borne away
5. St. Monica.
To ancient Milan's city fair,
Where holy Ambrose dwelt,
A woman came in deepest wo,
And at his feet she knelt:
"Father, I weep both day and night,
My very heart is riv'n,
My unbelieving son is still
By pride and passion driven.
He wanders to and fro on earth,
His spirit seeking rest;
And finding none, he drains a cup
By God and man unblest.
