The northern blast is sighing now, In every withered leafless bough, The dirge of the departed year; And the lone sea-bird’s dismal wail, That ever comes in storm and gale, Foretells the gathering tempest near. The gloom of night is deepening fast, And on the wild and fitful blast The stormy clouds like shadows fly; And darkened by their rapid flight, The pale and placid orb of night Is shrouded from the seaman’s eye. The vivid lightning’s transient flash, And then the deafening thunder crash, Proclaims the elemental war; And when the lightning leaves the skies, And when the rolling thunder dies, Hark, how the raging waters roar. The wild waves that in wanton play Fling to the winds their feather’d spray, But seem to mock the angry sky; But seem to sport in maddening pride, When all is dread and dark beside, And ghastly Death is hovering nigh. * * * * * * Morn: oh! how many anxious eyes Have watched the live-long night for thee, That from the threshold of the skies, Now looks o’er a tempestuous sea; The ocean that so softly bright Hath mirror’d oft the Queen of Night, In lustrous lines of liquid light, And, oh! hath looked so calm and fair, As if no storm could gather there. Like to those living lights that shine So pure and placid from the eyes, When at Religion’s holy shrine The humble soul in rapture lies, And gloomy passions wake within, That lead away the heart to sin; Then all that looked so fair and bright, So pure in its own sportive glee, Becomes a torture and a blight, And wilder than the raging sea. The gale now slowly dies away, With the approach of dawning day, And every wave that chafes the shore, Salutes the strand with sullen roar, And on the beach in sadness flings All that to Hope was once so sweet, Like trophies which a warrior brings, And lays them at his country’s feet. Records that blood and death had earned, When mercy from her shrine was spurned. Alas! when angry storms break forth, And wake the waters into wrath; Ah! then the treacherous heaving wave Rolls over many a wanderer’s grave, And striving winds and foaming surge Sing many a mournful funeral dirge. * * * * * * Oh, Heaven! that such a lovely form Could brave so dread and fierce a storm, That one so beautiful and frail Could bide the harsh and bitter gale; And she who angels might have kept In hallowed watches while she slept, Is pillowed on the sandy shore, Her lullaby the waters’ roar: And frowning skies in sorrow spread Their canopy around her head.