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the fisherman's bride.
Pale, pale gleam'd her cheek 'neath the rich locks that curl'd,
And rivall'd in brightness the beams of the west,
As he promised, ere night its dark banner unfurl'd,
His Ellen again should be clasp'd to his breast.

But the storm-brooding spirit had mov'd o'er the ocean,
Forbidding its bleak angry billows to sleep;
She flew to the sea-side, with fearful emotion,
But she saw not his bark on the boisterous deep.

And now it is twilight, the day has gone over,
Ah! drearily, gloomily, pass'd the long day,
But no tidings of Donald, her husband, her lover,
No bark on the deep where her anxious eyes stray.

She thinks that the sky out to windward is clearing,
A blest ray of hope destined not to depart;
She stands on the dark brink, half-frenzied, unfearing,
And calls on her love in her sorrow of heart.

As the voice of her wailing is mournfully blending
With that of the storm rushing fearfully past,
It seems from the sea like a death-dirge ascending,
Till it weakens and dies on the bleak howling blast.

Joy, joy! she beholds his light shallop advancing,
Now almost engulphed 'neath the foam-crested wave,
And now it appears on the proud billows dancing,
Well guided by strong hands, the bold and the brave.