The very silken spaniel seems Of quiet ease to tell, As near its mistress' feet it dreams, Sunk in a cushion's swell And smiles seem native to the eyes Of those sweet children, three; They have but looked on tranquil skies, And know not misery. Alas! that Misery should come In such an hour as this; Why could she not so calm a home A little longer miss? But she is now within the door, Her steps advancing glide; Her sullen shade has crossed the floor, She stands at Gilbert's side. She lays her hand upon his heart, It bounds with agony; His fireside chair shakes with the start That shook the garden tree. His wife towards the children looks, She does not mark his mien; The children, bending o'er their books, His terror have not seen. In his own home, by his own hearth, He sits in solitude, And circled round with light and mirth, Cold horror chills his blood. His mind would hold with desperate clutch The scene that round him lies; No--changed, as by some wizard's touch, The present prospect flies. A tumult vague--a viewless strife His futile struggles crush; 'Twixt him and his an unknown life And unknown feelings rush. He sees--but scarce can language paint The tissue fancy weaves; For words oft give but echo faint Of thoughts the mind conceives. Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim, Efface both light and quiet; No shape is in those shadows grim, No voice in that wild riot. Sustain'd and strong, a wondrous blast Above and round him blows; A greenish gloom, dense overcast, Each moment denser grows. He nothing knows--nor clearly sees, Resistance checks his breath, The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze Blows on him cold as death. And still the undulating gloom Mocks sight with formless motion: Was such sensation Jonah's doom, Gulphed in the depths of ocean? Streaking the air, the nameless vision, Fast-driven, deep-sounding, flows; Oh! whence its source, and what its mission? How will its terrors close? Long-sweeping, rushing, vast and void, The universe it swallows; And still the dark, devouring tide A typhoon tempest follows. More slow it rolls; its furious race Sinks to its solemn gliding; The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase, To stillness are subsiding. And, slowly borne along, a form The shapeless chaos varies; Poised in the eddy to the storm, Before the eye it tarries. A woman drowned--sunk in the deep, On a long wave reclining; The circling waters' crystal sweep, Like glass, her shape enshrining. Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned, Seems as in sleep reposing; A feeble light, now first discerned, The features well disclosing.