AT SEA.
IGHT frowns again upon the deep, Yet o'er the wave we markThe silvery folds of spray, which tell Our lonely pathway dark.Hark to old ocean's weird harp,— With dripping finger light,The breeze awakes the rippling keys To solemn Psalm of night.
Nor sculptur'd hills in misty view, Cheer us with hope of land;Nor flowers breathe their incense sweet Upon our floating band.
But gallantly, and stately still, Our ship rides through the foam;While faints in gathering mist of night Our country and our home.
"Asia;" 1855.
