They are shrouded as they go In a hurricane of snow, And the track beneath her prow Is their grave.
There are spirits of the deep, Who, when the warrant's given, Rise raging from their sleep On rock, or mountain steep, Or 'mid thunder-clouds that keep
The wrath of Heaven.
High the eddying mists are whirl'd As they rear their giant forms; See! their tempest flags unfurl'd,— Fierce they sweep the prostrate world, And the with'rini* lightning's huri'd Through the storms.
O'er Swilly's rocks they soar, Commissioned watch to keep; Down, down, with thundering roar, The exulting Demons pour— The Saldanah floats no more O'er the deep.
The dreadful hest is past— All is silent as the grave; One shriek was first and last— Scarce a death-sob drank the blast, As sunk her tow'ring mast
Beneath the wave.
