Catching the slimy weeds, from point to point, And unappall’d by peril. At the foot Of the rude rock, the fainting mariner Seiz’d on his outstretch’d arm; impatient, wild, With transport exquisite! But ere they heard The blest exchange of sounds articulate, A furious billow, rolling on the steep, Engulph’d them in Oblivion! On the rock Young HENRY stood; with palpitating heart, And fear-struck, e’en to madness! Now he call’d, Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew; But, mid the elemental strife of sounds, No human voice gave answer! The clear moon No longer quiver’d on the curling main, But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light, Enough to shew all things that mov’d around, Dreadful, but indistinctly! The black weeds Wav’d, as the night-blast swept them; and along The rocky shore the breakers, sounding low Seem’d like the whisp’ring of a million souls Beneath the green-deep mourning. Four long hours The lorn Boy listen’d! four long tedious hours Pass’d wearily away, when, in the East The grey beam coldly glimmer’d. All alone Young HENRY stood aghast: his Eye wide fix’d; While his dark locks, uplifted by the storm Uncover’d met its fury. On his cheek Despair sate terrible! For, mid the woes, Of poverty and toil, he had not known, ’Till then, the horror-giving chearless hour Of TOTAL SOLITUDE! He spoke—he groan’d, But no responsive voice, no kindred tone Broke the dread pause: For now the storm had ceas’d, And the bright Sun-beams glitter’d on the breast Of the green placid Ocean. To his Hut The lorn Boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch, The pillow still indented, met his gaze And fix’d his eve in madness.—From that hour A maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been; His garb with sea-weeds fring’d, and his wan cheek The tablet of his mind, disorder’d, chang’d, Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance, A Sea-beat wand’rer from the outstretch’d main Views the lone Exile, and with gen’rous zeal Hastes to the sandy beach, he suddenly Darts ’mid the cavern’d cliffs, and leaves pursuit To track him, where no footsteps but his own, Have e’er been known to venture! YET HE LIVES A melancholy proof that Man may bear All the rude storms of Fate, and still suspire By the wide world forgotten! _The GRANNY GREY_, _A LOVE TALE_.